PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He is athletic-slender, but plays for no high school team.
She is curvacious (called much worse by some),
and always unwanted by any high school team.
Some people suggest they do not belong together:
opinions such as that are the province of
the prejudiced, perverse, pretentious and prudish.
But summer's sultry warmth (which some ancient
poets have made a metaphor of romance)
has banished all but the gift of the present away.
She comes to a small copse of tree between their two residences:
with a small clearing almost midcenter of it,
shielded from the pry of eyes and wag of tongues.
He is there; with guitar. Both of them are dressed
in the same casual style: sleeveless teeshirts that cling to,
and faded jeans that tightly trace, all contours.
He is barefoot, having walked over like that---
defiant of the often unspoken dictum that barefoot young men
are not masculine---and so all the local coaches agree.
She knows, already, that he will not have expected
her to remove all her clothes---he is not like that.
She is aware that the casual abandonment of her shoes---
and she begins that simple process as we speak---
will add a dimension to his pleasure that most
grown men are unable to understand; even with wisdom.
He will play whatever songs she wants to hear;
she will want to hear whatever songs he can play.
The sight of her midnight-blue socks provides his inspiration
(that fragrance already teases him; and, perhaps later, the taste
will season his desire's slow, wet kisses);
and his response bestirs their mutual delectation.
I am a minor poet: this is all I have.
Some future, major poet will, someday, bestow the nomination
on them, the deserving, of a constellation.

Starward