A girl’s bare
Arms. The charms
Of scented hair.
Her leg
Touching mine
Is divine.
But I know
That in bed
Its often so-so.
A girl’s bare
Arms. The charms
Of scented hair.
Her leg
Touching mine
Is divine.
But I know
That in bed
Its often so-so.
After the wine
And the polite
Conversation,
She is mine
For the night.
Anticipation.
Dissipation.
No real delight.
His anticipation
Of dissipation.
Grows, as a video goes
Over old shows.
They enact, as in a dream
The pantomime
Of a good time,
As seen,
On the same, cracked, screen.
Girlie conversation
As heels pass him by.
No lass
Just the empty glass
And his anticipation
Null.
Yet I
Know that hope
Is the last thing to die