Ode to Drew B.byNigel Debonnaire©
An ode to Drew–oh, luscious you!
Reclining blissfully, half dozing,
on a warm, white fuzzy bed.
Red lips and fingernails flick points
fire in a symphony of white and pink
and brown, pink flower and gold
chain a counterpoint of elegance.
So much of your porcelain skin
shining brightly, twin mounds of
delight, a silky stomach home to a
butterfly, a flower and semi-hidden
dark tufts below.
An old picture. We were all younger, right?
Surely no dreams of you
dancing Letterman-esque on my desk
cross my mind,
nor impossibilities of
hot, wet encounters,
for I know I’m a fat, old bastard,
and catching you is as likely as a
dog catching a car.
You are not naked, but nude.
I gaze at you
and I see:
streams running through green grass,
rolling Midwest farmland,
Clouds dancing in blue summer sky,
stately carved museum hallways;
and I hear:
bright high strings,
low profound melodious brass,
young laughter and
porch chimes in a warm evening’s zephyr.
And I taste:
fresh apples, fiery cinnamon, warm, home-baked bread,
rich, red wine.
My eyes rest on you, my breath grows calm,
my heart rejoices in
two barely budding nubs of your nipples;
I am in awe of
a Creator that makes such
and find peace.
(The picture that inspired this poem can be found easily via a Google Image search for “Drew Barrymore” without filters.)