She’s like a great cup of
coffee. She’s dark and
hot, sweet and bitter,
brewed and stirred up.
She makes me nervous
and jittery, but in the best
way. Awake, alert and ready.
She’s like music, like jazz,
but the good jazz that
people actually know,
that flows and swings, and
not that free form craziness
no one is sure about but try to dig
anyway even though it was just
the trumpeter clearing the
spit valve. She’s the good
music. The groove. The nod.
She has a thunderstorm in
her soul and lightening in
her eyes and I feel the rumbling
every time I’m near her. It makes
me want to take shelter but watch
the storm from my front porch.
It’s dangerous and exciting.
She’s windy but cooling, breezy
but not blustery, cool when too hot,
hot when too cool. At your back,
through your hair, not wanting to
blow you over or knock you about,
but just enough to rattle the sashes
and shutters to let you know she’s there.
She’s the straight from the oven smell,
the newly made, the unspoiled by
that awful cheese someone brought
to the party because they heard in a
fancy magazine to bring smelly cheese
to parties. She’s the comforting warmth
of freshness tinged with familiarity.
She makes me fall, every time, with a
glance, with a smile, with a kind word,
with a laugh, with a frown, with a casual
touch. She makes me sound like a love
sick teenager, which we all are at heart, but try
to deny because we’re grown-ups and
not supposed to act that way now.
I just don’t know if she knows
how she curls my toes.
She’s makes me a mewling,
terrified wreck of a man, and yet,
I suppose, that’s more than most folks
make me feel about anything.
That’s got to count for something.
She's Electricity, I'm hoping to
get shocked by.