Now That You’ve Heard My Poems, Is There Still A Point In Everyone Getting Naked?

It’s true you don’t know about the freckles on my shoulders
Or about the spot I’ve cut so many times shaving- it’s just below my left knee-
That there’s a permanent mark, a scar.
(They used to be open to anyone’s view; That was summer.
It’s wintertime now and you’ll have to wait.)
But you’ve shared in puzzling over the most apt simile and in rhyme
And we wrestled with personification all over town.
Do I enjoy having my shoulders stroked?
Will I prefer water or juice before I start snoring?
How’s it feel to have my hipbone in the palm of your hand
All still a mystery- it’s true.
But you know my most closely-held opinions on iambic pentameter and the limerick.
We discussed my obsession with Billy Collins and Carl Sandburg.
I told you I’d like to experience a ghazal
And that’s something I’ve never told any man.
The more I think on it, the more I realize it may already be too late.
We’ve gone too far. I’ve revealed too much.
Anything you learn now:
How my hair looks on the pillow;
Do I have a husky laugh;
The way our arms fit around each other when our bodies are pressed close and we’re not also dancing around a cat;
Could be a let-down, a major disappointment.
Keeping that in mind- if you’re still interested- let’s give it a try.
I’ll just put my pen and notebook here on the table beside the bed.
In case I need to, you know, jot down a few stanzas during the afterglow.


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