Knees

She whispersings my name
As if a secret psalm.
Her fingers ride my palm
Beneath a slight pretext
Of telling all my future days.

She's not entirely in shape,
But all her flesh is draped about her
Beckoning and flexing.
Her skin is always sliding
Nearer to my touch.
She flaunts a fiery intelligence.
She tears into her croissant
And sips her light brown coffee sweet.
She keeps receipts.

Her eyes exert a gravity
I can't escape.

While I would love the flowering of world peace,
I'd toss it all to Hell
For an hour between her knees.

She's acting nonchalant,
But I can smell
She's soon to make a wet mess
Inside that dress.

- 9/9/26

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