I'm trying to read
Here, in the sun
in a midtown plaza
Tucked among towers.
A black fly has landed and
sits, confident,
on my book.
The reading isn't going well;
you keep invading my thoughts.
I haven't seen you in weeks; no, months.
I fear you don't love me anymore.
We may still have a taste for each other--
we'll know soon.
You'll pick up my heat,
and I your scent,
We'll be at it again.
That will suit for a short while
but it won't quell
your thirst for woman
nor mine for love.
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 5