pale pastels in the mist
seen through a screen of whimsy
still, we follow, with flagging eyes
light mauves edged in silver shimmer
what will take form
from this impressionist’s
master hand?

Long years of erotic starvation
have lent my dream-painter a lover’s license.
This night. This tumescent night.
This hot tumescent night.
I am sweating, splayed on the sheets, sex switch ON.
I follow your scent from the sidewalk outside.
What will your face look like?
Now, I hear the bathroom window slide open.
I have left the light on, just for you.
You must be slim, a gymnast, I think as I hear
two bare feet smack the floor at once.
Then, a little giggle.
An elfin face with raven hair
pokes once past my doorframe,
wearing a very naughty smirk.
From the bathroom, I hear an undressing sound.
Zippers? Satin against skin?
Some toes, a foot, a calf, a knee appear.
Delicate hands grip the door jamb,
and you, my delightful elf, venture another appearance.
You swing sideways, holding the door, like a pole dancer.
White bra and panties, and you have put on bobby socks, sweat scented.
I am fibrillating, paralyzed with anticipation.
You reveal yourself, full on in the window’s moonlight.
Your pretty head tilted aslant, eyes wide, little smile,
asking approval.
There’s some oddness about you that drives me to madness.
It’s the way you stand.
A little knock-kneed, a little pigeon-toed.
With those socks and cotton panties and the bashful grin,
I am almost at the top, without even touching you.
I rise, tucking in my belly a bit.
I open my arms, you come to me.
Almost nose to nose now.
You were made for me. Who do I thank?
I bend, pick you up in your lightness, lay you down.
You on your side, I on mine, we entwine.
I explore your face, your hair.
My hands expose a delightful ear.
I nibble, holding your shoulders.
Lifting your chin, I kiss gently underneath.
Your breath quickens a little, you guide my hands.
To the soft firmness of twin peaks.
One finger marks out its territory,
skiing, skating, sliding, stepping up
to the cherries on top.
Can we have a taste?
A little whipped cream, perhaps.
Now your scent rises the more,
and your knees move against one another,
popsicle toes gripping the sheets.
I wish to save your velvet valley for the last,
but you have insistent hands.
You left those cotton panties on,
and they’re a little wet now,
as you guide my wrist beneath.
Those knees, they’re killers,
and you can’t stop moving them.
Your pigeon toes have them in a lock.
But I have the key.

I diddle away here
when maybe I should be
washing the dishes
vacuuming the floor
going for a walk in the false spring
fighting for a cause
helping the poor
letting God see i’m paying my debt
even though he knows it’s just appeasement

somewhere in the Bible there’s a story
about a rich man who gave away
much of his fortune
for he had heard that rich men have
as much of a chance of getting to Heaven
as a camel has of passing through the eye of a needle
and then there was a poor man
who lent his last penny to help someone
and we know which one God smiled upon

so this diddling, this “writing” if you will
is, most times, all that emanates from me

even now, I feel the push
to go and seek, go and do

Let me up, let me up
and I will.