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.
The dance.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment