PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

September on that campus
was the sometimes awkward transition
from summer's soar to autumn's fall;
from nights at the drive-in movie
to longer nights at the study carrel;
and parental interrogations
displaced by scheduled final examinations.
Three classes, an hour each, for the day
and three days of classes for the week:
the remainder of our time was challengingly free
(nor did I think that double-edged sword
would turn, sharply, against me in less than four months).
Although we could not dance the disco's steps,
we spoke its slang---and physical lust was "get down."
At college we liked to get down shortly after noon,
after opposite sex visitation began at twelve o'clock high.
Our passionate, and well intentioned groping,
seemed more defiant and less surreptitious
than our date-nights' late-hour, summery, summary
collusive collisions in the back seat of my sub-compact car

on a rural road outside of our small and gossipy hometown.
I remember the first time you came to my dormitory,
a couple of hours after a lighthearted lunch.
You kicked your shoes off, as you knew I liked,
then wiggled out of your tee-shirt to be
bare from the waist up in those braless Seventies days.
The baggy flares of your bell bottom jeans
concealed almost all of your blue and white striped socks---
with only the metallic blue, sheathing your toes, in my line of site.
You said, "Even though our dorms our adjacent,
"I did not want to soil my socks
"as that would have spoiled the glide across your face,
"so I wore my shoes, assured they would not confine me too long."
I could drop prone to the floor fairly quickly back then.
Seated on the edge of the dormitory bed---
which, for us, was wide compared to that subcompact back seat---
you moved your feet with deliberate, teasing delay,
over to and upon my eagerly upturned face,
your soft socks fully aromatic with the delicate scent
of feminine, freshly-showered, foot-sweat,
the promise and assurance of climactic love.

Starward