My Muse Is a Boy
He slinks to his place under the tree,
carrying his bag of art that swings
against his slender legs, and
he sits on a leaf-littered patch of grass
that’s surely brown beneath the
dull oranges and yellows of the leaves.
And as he sits, his shirt lifts up,
revealing just a taste of that delightful
flat stomach, which is only one thing
of beauty about this boy.
There’s a list.
A long list of beauty and perfection
and even grace as he taps his feet on
the ground and drums his fingers on
his lean thighs, listening to whatever
music is his preference.
I can’t help staring and
I can’t help feeling like I’m
stalking this boy that’s just a few
years younger than myself.
But his beauty enthralls me to
the point of hypnotization, to
the point that I can’t look away,
until he looks in my direction
then my eyes go north, east, south,
west, whatever direction he’s not in.
But seconds later I’m back to
taking in the shape of his torso and
the strong muscles of his forearms
that are revealed by rolled up sleeves.
Then, I’m back to his lean thighs
and the way they taper down to his
thin, but strong and firm calves.
He looks over in my direction
once again, this time I’m frozen
and can’t look away. He smiles
and my body starts to tremble
and I feel as if I could crumble
away at any moment.
He rises from his patch of grass,
leaving his bag of art behind him.
Now he’s next to me and I can’t seem
to open my mouth to say a simple “Hello”.
He’s silent as well, but then he
Kisses me
Kisses me
Kisses me
Now I’m back.
Staring into space.
I look to the left a bit and
he’s there, now lying on his
patch of grass,
listening and tapping and drumming.
Copyright © Andrew Herrera | Year Posted 2010
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