I remember the one
and only time
I saw as much of your legs so
languid, so long, so lovely, so smooth
as I will ever get to see (stupid me).
Unless
you return someday to commit a crime,
wearing that angelic white dress again,
and,
flinging it off on your way to the
nearest jungle to be
forever fabric-free, you vault
like a happy kangaroo to stand, my
Sheena of the ‘Burbs, sublime on the
lam,
alone in a leafless tree.You knew the thing was
tremendously short.
I didn’t know whether to believe
that you really did have nothing else on,
or that maybe I was being coyly put upon.
But I admit it. So
intently was I wondering
when you stretched and reached
without blundering
for the most unreachable shelf
in your closet,
in delicate decency
all the while
tugging down
the back of your dress
with a pure smile, demure
yet determined
in modesty to cover
the crest of your thighs curving,
caressing to discover
your underwear lurking or your derriere
smirking like someone who isn’t here
and
certainly wasn’t all there
(e.g., your lover).
Did you find
anything in your blessed closet
that wretched night? Funny, I don’t
recall
or care, though I do remember
in the glare of puerile hurt I nobly
endured, as silent as a church
applauding wildly one-
half of your search.
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