Weighed, measured and found to be lacking, but I’m
still in the game like a shortstop dreaming of a touchdown.
…and she even looks hot when she eats chicken,
which is just one of several things I think, but don’t say
as I hope a magic starfish can swim by and point out
where the currents flow toward the center of her being.

If only our eyeballs could float from socket to socket
like hummingbirds I could see myself as she does.
…while I find myself temporarily paranoid she is psychic
and can tell I am wondering if her bra matches her panties,
although not in a perverted way, rather I think it might reveal
something of her organization and attention to detail.

Like obstacles in a Steeple Chase, I recall lapses in morality
about which I am ashamed, but nonetheless remember fondly.
…still the way she talks over the martini in front of her, eyes
flickering like a candle between angel and antichrist, makes me
wonder whether she’d rather kiss me or rip my throat out, and
I hope tonight I won’t have to settle for some barren middle ground.

-- by Steve McKennon, 10/13/06