twenty-six buttons

Spring was due
last Friday,
yet prognostication
remains for betting fools,
as that long, black
bodysweater
warmly
hides the silky softness
that separates
my roughness
(you asked that
I not shave today)
from the heart of you;
miles, just feeble measures --
smiles, signs of treasures --
and that dark, soft garb,
by virtue of its length,
features thirty buttons,
neatly spaced,
carefully placed,
on the path
to your center;
gravity or something
pulls me,
as you slowly
overcome me.



March 23, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.