Your shoulders have freckles,
Though I haven’t just noticed;
They’ve been shrugging
in my mind for weeks,
Smooth as birch bark.
This alluring valley of bra strap habit
just to the right of your clavicle
invites me to trace my fingers
along and down your back,
Beyond where it ends.
I’ve never seen eyes like yours;
Dark, surveyors of much pain,
Though puppy-wet, quietly enthused,
Worn on slightly flushed face –
Are you not used to this kind of attention?
You seem attuned to the game
but make me feel a worthy opponent,
You cunning fox.
To hell with the bloody paunch!
I tell you it doesn’t matter!
What monsters of men have you encountered?
Is this the coyness of Marvell’s woodland mistress
or will my advances find themselves in
Meet me in the beer cellar
under premise of replacing
the lemonade syrup,
My lips braise your elegant neck,
Finite time until you’re missed,
This is where the fun is,
Not over a hot ironing board
pressing husband's collars.