What does he see
When he squints Into the camera Watching himself really Does he try to Make a frightening face Scowl smirk and snarl Playing the gunslinger Daring a challenge Puffed up frippery Pours from his powdered lips The man who would be president
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Waiting in line
Waiting to board A line of ten or twenty ahead I tired gaze down the cue i notice the neck ear hairline Of each one Down the line I am seized by the urge To nuzzle my nose into That small soft edge of each Snoogle into Burrow into That space under The ear Above the shoulder Down the line One after another Compare scents skins Warmth receptivity What if I did it Would they lock me up I snap out of the doze The dream The line moved forward Warmth of morning sun
Spreads over me Slouched in an easy chair Reading poetry on Sunday morning Deliciousness of the moment Resonates in stillness As I linger Solitary on the porch Other tasks nag Paperwork piles up Still I remain Soaking up the sun A few moments more |