Anticipation
Ooh, how he loved
sliding his hands
over the long silkiness,
the youthful curves
of his new wife,
over the negligee
before it rode up…
anticipation like driving a new car -
not comparable,
I know,
and at odds,
depending on
whether you are for the wife
or the car.
Ooh, how he loved sliding his hands
over the hood,
the caps,
the hips,
the back.
He loved the mirrors -
those on
the side or over the bed.
He handled his new ride with care,
the caress with smiles to impress.
The leather new, the scent
of Mon Paris Eau de Parfum.
He’s not a poet, notices not
the moon, sun or stars,
but he can feel his way
in the dark.
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