PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

That would have been one of the sultry and starlit

Friday or Saturday nights during the summer of

nineteen seventy-six, after Friday, July ninth, and

prior to Friday, September third.  Parked at the

drive-in movie, my Pinto, without regard to the

societal inhibitions imposed upon

us; after the constellated nightfall, and in the

glow of our c.b.'s dial light, you had already

tossed your shoes into the back floorboards and

unbuttoned your shirt.  Your request that I

unbutton my own shirt took me a little aback

(my torso not as well-shaped as yours), but

with that coy, impassioned smile of yours, you

gently insisted, and how could I have denied you

anything, after all you had done for me---

leading me to the new identity,

Starwatcher, that had set me at liberty

from the constrictive shadow of Lloyd and Betty.

Thus, I acceded, nervously, to your request; and you

giggled a little as, like some kind of acrobat in that

small compartment, you swung your legs over toward

me, slipping your feet beneath the flaps of my

shirt.  The fragrance of your socks was like a

scent of incense smoking upon the heat of my

desire.  Upon those circlets of sensual pleasure, you

footsteps' caresses danced; pausing and moving

from them to my lips eager to bestow, upon the

soft, warm fabric that sheathed your slender feet,  the

most ardent of kisses.  And neither of us even noticed that the

cartoons had concluded and the film (a B-type (horror movie)

had already commenced. But what also had begun (although I

could not, and still cannot, foresee its end) became the process

(first, Starwatcher; then Starward, now J-Called---which is the final,

most inclusive, and fullest version) that summer, Friday

night and Saturday morning, July of nineteen seventy-four, when

I was called outside of the house to view the stars, to gaze starward, and

now it remains as such with gratitude.

Starward

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