Bucket of Lust

Straddling the console, bodies twisted
in bucket seats, desire undimmed by
discomfort; passion pushes aside
the gear shift stuck between,
they are oblivious to it.

In the back of one mind
or the other
want for a bench seat pokes through, the other
wonders whether this was a wise move.
Perhaps this is best left for those younger
bodies – a fleeting thought – this question
does not break the build of sexual tension.

Fogged windows mirror the emotion
uncertain in the afterglow
each silently wanting
to ask
was it good for you?




Rearview Mirror

The stoplight wasn’t nearly long enough;
I only caught a glimpse in the rearview.
Not enough time to drink in his image –
left thirsty, only a sip of blue eyes
(were they blue beyond my imagining?)

No cigarette dangled from crimson lips
– which only made me want to taste them more.
With no idea of height, just a hint
of stature by his casual posture
leaning against window and steering wheel.

Red turned green – envy my destination
as he disappeared around the corner.
I just passed, too shy to reverse my course.
He will remain in my rearview mirror.


Eye Candy

Slim hips and broad shoulders, he leans against

the bricked wall, eyes shadowed behind glasses.

His crisp white shirt and blue jeans lend themselves

to his casual sexuality.

An ordinary man on a Paris

sidewalk, he is nothing special to me

or anyone I know, yet he provides

a glimpse of romance. Imagination

runs into dangerous territory

and I feel my body stir. Now I am

wishing for sunglasses to hide behind

so neither he nor anyone else can

see the lust loosened within, that coil

red hot and waiting for a lover’s touch.




Spinning ‘Round

Her body betrays her time and again,
no one can see; there are no bruises, no
cuts that bleed, just pain, pressure, discomfort
(only relieved by the tiny white pills).
Room-spin threatens her reality,
a moment of dizzy stretches from night
to days, weeks, and more than a month without
reason; she can’t blame it on love or lust
no school-girl crush has her lightheaded, no
fantasy has captured her head and heart.

It’s simply her body, deliberate
to a fault; letting her know to slow down
not expect more than she can give herself
only then will the world stop spinning ‘round.



The Value of Memories

Breeze sifts through open windows, stirs the curtains.
Scents hidden in the folds of memory
fill the space, push against it, invade.

An image of what once was finds it way
out of that place holding all her secrets,
exposes lost dreams and forgotten hopes.

Of all she values, it is those she holds
within her darkest desire that she relives.

She recalls the lingering sensations …
a trail of fingertips across belly and breasts;
the scratch of nails along her spine.

She no longer lies to herself – or others –
memories are to be cherished
for what they gave us – what they give us.


This isn’t Love

This isn’t love – yet passion plays within
the confines of time spent together. Lust?
It is more refined and emotional
than animal magnetism – tender,
sensual and delicious, forbidden.
Each year that drifts and flies beyond our reach
shifts subtle nuances into this thing –
this coupling of two people so separate
as to be strangers when in truth, we’re not;
likewise not totally known – a mystery.

Each time we meet, desire enters in
standing in the corner or on our lips.
Do not deny its existence – accept
it is a force between two bodies – ours.


Therapy Session
He took her to the countryside in spring,
the day quite beautiful, and they lay down
on a tartan of sea green and sky blue.
They put to rest the world around them, lost
beneath clean sunshine, and moved together –
their exercise in restraint abandoned.
Years later, she longs for a photograph
to extend her memories of that time.
A snapshot of his face and hers; the smile
she wore as if she’d committed a crime
by being happy and yet didn’t care.
Each therapy session she relives it,
the deadpan eyes exploring her blink
and remind her she is indeed special.