- Erotic Poetry
- On the Edge
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The dishes are gone
no forks, no knives
napkins properly folded and put to rest
table for two
more or less
the clock on the stove
casts a dim, digital glow
across the table
and you
on the edge
oyster on a half shell
a welcome invitation
like a bell
calling me to dinner
food's on the table
and it's time to eat
soft, tender morsel
warmed by the touch
of hungry, greedy fingers
and a wet, adventurous tongue
taste buds explode
as a plethora of sensations
surge through my mouth
sweet and sour
hot and spicy
simmering
scalding
boiling
a feast of plenty
for one starving man
