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Possessed
My eyes followed her. They wouldn't behave.
Her strut, her smile, a wicked challenge gave.
The angel on my shoulder warned, "femme fatale",
telling me kindly, "this time, let me make the call".
But I couldn't stop my feet, as I approached her -
or my lips, as my question broached her,
and my digits recorded her digits like a slave,
possessed they were, as my angel tried to save
...me. He slumped on my shoulder in defeat.
He cried as I phoned her and agreed to meet.
There was no devil on my other shoulder.
He was inside me, making my heart smolder.
My angel had wanted me to flee,
but, despite a moment of hydrologic uncertainty,
the devil made me do the crime,
but it's not so bad. I'm glad the boy is mine.
Copyright ©
David Crandall
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