- Erotic Poetry
- Messages
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It isn’t quite like leaving cookies
and milk for Santa. I know
that you are real, just somewhere else
in your own happy life,
with children and dogs and a husband
and, probably, a mortgage
you wish was paid off.
That’s me too. Less the children,
the mortgage, the dogs.
And I don’t have a husband.
But these little poems I leave you
are prayers.
They're how I get to stroke your hair
and curl your shoulder
into mine.
So I will leave them, like those mushroom things
that grow over night in your lawn.
Something amazing
that appears overnight,
like my finger, if it was ever as I might wish,
drawn slow and long over your exquisite jaw.
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