I’m not one to split hairs.
Nor am I one to strain out
a gnat and swallow a camel.
Or am I? (At least a toe?)
And I’m certainly not one to
hold something against you.
But I could be.
“Please,” you say, with a giggle,
“Hold something against me.”
Let me pour milk in secret places.
Kiss the cream from buds of roses.
Lapping milk from out your dish
as a hungry mewling kitten,
‘til you purr like rolling thunder,
and the dish jumps up and splashes,
and the milk runs down my whiskers,
and we lie abed and giggle,
like two children who are well-fed.
In my office today,
obviously at ease around me,
You took refuge from your job,
sitting slightly back in a chair
with your legs spread as far as your
tight skirt and an overt sense
of propriety would allow.
From the corner of my eye I spied
the tiniest triangle of white cotton
Was your brain off-planet, like the rest of us?
Or were you making an offer,
some sort of backhanded compliment?
©2007 Rick Robb