PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[after Stephen's poem, Interplantery Report]

The human body lays out on the bed.
Beside it is the tank top, the long skirt
with a slit up one side, the brown stockings
(translucent, except the doubly woven
heels and toes---the style he loves to see;
although now silent, even forgotten
fashion magazines once condemned that style);
and the lace garter belt to hold them up.
No shoes; he does not like you to wear shoes.
The planet is rotating to twilight;
time to put on the body and get dressed.

The planet is rotating to twilight;
the sky is, as always, quite clear.  And he,
the poet of stars and astronomy,
ascends the circular metallic stair
of the observatory you gave him.
Smiling, he expects you to join him there.
No disappointment lingers anywhere.
The second movement of Chopin's Second
Piano Concerto plays around him;
repetitiously?---perhaps but that is
the music he wants to surround you both.

When the earth still existed, girls like you
did not happen, ever, to boys like him---
the geeks and dweebs of the high school's discard;
rejected in the high school's disregard.
"I want him, he is mine," you said, in front
of many others aghast at your words.
He was as shocked as all of them were;
and you, dressed then (as you are dressing now),
said to them all, "I want him, he is mine."

Of course, none of them, even him, at all
suspected that you were an infiltrant,
an incoporeal alien, come
with others to select the chosen few---
the poets of their professions, hobbies
and callings, the great ones who must be spared,
preserved from the planned pulverization,
the soul of the planet severed from the
virulent population that, with time,
would have shattered the tranquil peace of space.

One night, your stockinged feet clutched in his hand,
the heels and toes dampened by his kisses,
you told him the whole truth.  He did not fret;
did not even let go of your feet.
Even the incorporality did
not disturb him as much as you might have
expected---not when you told him how
much you adored him and that you could wear
this, or any body that he might want.
"This one," he said, with a whisper and
applied his lips to your soft sheathed soles.

The devices of pulverization
would ensure a complete annihlation.

When the transport ships lifted gently from
their hidden sites all over the planet,
none of the chosen bothererd to look back.

Dressed now, go to him.  Let your stockinged feet
ascend the circular stairs, one by one,
in the softness of this body's footsteps.
Ask him to read you some of his verses,
and show you some of the universe's
wonders found in the local galaxy.

Then, as night deepens in the sky above,
give yourselves over to the joys of love.

Starward

[jlc]