@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; The Old, Blind Poet's Young Lover

He, the Young Lover of my poem's title,

having attained the law's age of consent,

comes to the old, blind Poet's tall front door:

to which he has a key---a birthday gift,

from his lover.  But, before I proceed---

and lest discouraged by old prudes' complaints---

tell me, Musa Puerilis (whom, I think,

my readers will know as Cerulean):

tell me what I should know to write this poem;

show me, once more again, that Saturday

morning light that we often had enjoyed

during our Summer of SeventySix.

The deadbolt turns; the door opens to him:

he enters and in that foyer, removes

his shoes.  Beneath the tattered cuffs of his

bell-bottom cargo pants (khaki colored;

and into which his button-down shirt is---

despite a high school's outmoded dress code---

loosely tucked, though unbuttoned at the cuffs),

his feet sheathed in the softness of gray socks

move over the polished wood of the floor.

Softness of gray socks, I shall say again,

chosen for that fabric's erotic glide

across his lover's flesh still eagerly

receptive to that.  His long, profuse curls

frame his face's perfect romantic gaze,

then cascade to his shoulders.  His deep eyes

deliver starlight; and his shy, but coy,

smile can suggest quite sensual delights

without a word spoken.  His slender build

and agile limbs make him attractice to

most of the girls in his class, and some boys

(with whom, had he not fallen otherwise

in love, he would have been glad to consort).

Within the library, just to the right,

the old, blind Poet sips a cup of tea

(plain, orange pekoe with a lemon slice---

this he prefers to more exotic brands),

and dictates a new poem into a tape

recorder.  And at that point,we would be

well to withdraw in common courtesy.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wanted to write a small vignette with these two characters just for the challenge of putting the descriptions into iambic pentameter, and to assert the point that age differences, or even physical challenges (such as blindness), cannot impede a true and thriving love.   And a cup of orange pekoe is quite conducive to the composition of poems.

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