- Non-Erotic Poetry
- A Missionary Seven Ways To Sunday
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Once a month, a Sister or a Brother
stand on my doorstep preaching.
They are clean-cut, smelling of soap
and starched white cotton shirts.
Sometimes, I listen to their goodness.
Other times, wickedness slips
then flirting ensues and it’s not always
initiated by me. I don't invite them inside,
even in disagreeable weather.
Though, this one last week, there was
plenty of badness from both sides.
A squall poured down, soaking this blond
to see-through, hard nipples and erections.
I relented in my living room, but a sermon
wasn't on my mind or his lips as I kissed them.
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