Suburban twilight,
Punctuated by porch lights
Welcoming weary workers home.
“Hello darling,”
She says,
“I missed you,”
Her bare shoulders
Framed by the thin straps,
Too loose,
Of her tiny, translucent dress.
This never happened to me.
A bunch of soccer ball boys,
Too young to go on a date,
Stand together in a jagged circle
On a grass-dirt field
While their parents lie to each other
About nothing in particular,
Waiting for the game to begin.
Back on the boulevard
Commuters swim upstream,
Fighting their way back
To the suburban spawning grounds
For a few hours of fun
Before it all shuts down in sleep,
And regret.
~ Poem and photograph by Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved
“Nothing beats an 18-year-old pair of hips.”
It’s from a poem. Her poem. That blond-haired girl in my college creative writing class, reading her poem out loud, a poem about her love of sex, of having sex, preferably with lean 18-year-old boys at the zenith of their sexual energies.
Within a few days of her recitation I noticed she began coming to class with the professor, a man not quite twice her age who evidently was quite willing to submit his hips to her critical assessment.
Yes, they had definitely paired off, but unfortunately, the academic quarter came to an end before she had a chance to construct a poem about this new sexual experience.
But why should I let that fact limit my own imagination?
You Are Not My Daddy
Yes, you are not my daddy.
Yes, you are not my boyfriend.
Yes,
Yes,
Yes.
Oh my God,
Yes!
~ © Blond-haired College Girl
There’s nothing like a college education to expand one’s imagination.
© All Rights Reserved