Married

I drove up to the beach home; you

giggled and I fumbled off your bra.

Eagerly you betrayed yourself by

wriggling off your pantihose; we left

them in the car.  You tied your blouse

below your breasts; and they nestled

smooth and warm like fertile eggs.

I smacked the tight seat of your skirt,

and eased you into the kitchen; first

to eat.

 

(Julian O’Dea)

 

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