Rising Sap

I read that for Larkin intercourse
began in nineteen sixty-three.
Some may think that it was too coarse
but that poem struck a chord with me.
It brought back memories of old
when the trunk was full of rising sap,
when we didn’t dream of finding gold
but believed that love was on tap
and could be turned on in an instant.
In reality it was somewhat elusive;
the object of your passion was reluctant
and the refusal could be quite conclusive
though we never once gave up the hunt.
(And it wasn’t the upper lip that we kept stiff
whenever we had to endure the brunt
of rejection, following a lover’s tiff.)
Even though we knew that it caused stress
we felt duty bound to make a pass.
It was very much a game of chess
which ended, with no victors, in impasse.
Eventually the opponent would yield,
- it could happen anywhere, maybe in a park -
enabling us to penetrate the shield
so that finally, like Larkin, we could lark.

© Luigi Pagano 2008