He Had A Way With The Girls

He stared in the mirror

Seeing the mundane 

And repetitive 

The tired

As he lifted a razor

To shave a scarred

Age worn face

Of it’s daily peppered growth.

He dipped the blade 

In the hot running water

And brought it up to the 

Lathered Aloe Barbisol.

He caught a glimpse of her

In the foggy mirror.

She was in the tub behind him

Shaving her legs.

She was fifteen years younger 

Than he.

He stopped and watched for a moment.

There was nothing

Mundane about that.

She didn’t know that he was studying her

Like a noteworthy oiled treasure

Holding space

On a south facing wall 

In a celebrated museum

He found solace in her movement

The perfumed water

Ebbing from her flesh.

He dipped his blade back under the scalding water

And drew crimson red instantly.

Dreamland

We fell asleep 

Lying on our sides

Cocoon-like

Spooning tightly

Warm silk

In the winter parchment moonlight.

Her breast 

Filled my cupped hand

Like a soft warm grapefruit

Breathing...

She had long ago pushed her hair

A-way up 

Into the 

Valleys and hills 

Of the pillow landscape

Shepherded

By pretty 

Fingers and lotioned hands.

I could

Still smell the residue of

Vanilla and amber

On the supple shifting dunes

Of her shoulders

Neck

And spine.

My hardness pressed

Against

The elegantly drawn curve

Of her ass

Settling into the crack

Just right

Thinking on it’s own accord

Having it’s own dreams.

It was at this moment that I awoke

And took notice of all this.

The clock said 3:42.

In that cold grey light

Brimming through the frosted glass

From outside

12 degrees fahrenheit

To be exact

I was bare witness to

The soft creamy perfection

When peanut butter meets chocolate.

Of when a breast became a grapefruit

And a cock was free to think

On it’s own

Until the sun came up.

The Librarian

She walked towards me

Heel to toe

Heel to toe

Head up and proud

Gazing direct

The 1-1/2” rectangle block

Of a hardcover book

Balanced atop her head

Hips pivoting

Arms straight and swaying

Hands and fingers pointed outwards

Like a fashionista.

She sat in my lap

Wordless

The bun of her hair

Pressing into my face.

I could smell archives

Pages

And manuscripts.

The mysterioso

Of printer’s ink.

She crossed her legs

Taking the book down

From atop her dark, dark hair

Cracking the spine

And began reading to me

The most wonderous

Of fairy tales

That you'd never believe.