At the drive-in theater, we began to kiss,
not much concerned with how much film we might miss.
Shirt unbuttoned, he offered his bare torso
to my limber and agile fingertips,
and then my moistened, eloquent tongue and lips.
Without regard to haters' and old prudes'
words, we both wanted our amorous mood's
progress to linger, taking time and go slow:
a Saturday night, the hour told by the clock's
dial did not matter. Then, in that small space,
he lifted his feet (shoeless, sheathed in dark socks,
admittedly fragrant and flavorful)
right up to my eager and available
(and, also, rather unattractive) face:
and I kissed each foot---toes, heel, arch and sole.
No clouds obscured the sky and its stars above
us; and no homophobia choked our love.
J-Called