A glow of freckled comeliness
ot young not old
a little thick set
like a mature cat.

When we pass a book
between us
our fingertips withdraw
scalded by prehension.

The room is crowded
but far away
like a story in a closed book.
We are alone
beyond the codex of morality.

We both know
that I want to lay you down
on this tiled civic floor
to imprint a blaring desire
upon a mute press.

There is an understanding;
a regard
that fast birds
and slow elephants have
for mutual journeys.

I envision
your creamy thighs
lofted high,
your sensible skirt
pulled over your head
as we grunt sotto voce
between aisles K to Q.
















(C) Eric Ashford August 08