Sunday Afternoon In the Park With G

We speculate,
sitting beneath
this leafy old
tree in the park,

as to why those
passing by us
glare and mutter,
shield their kids' eyes.

You believe it
to be racial
issues with your
café au lait

cheek and dark curls
nestled upon
my shoulder pale
as morning cream.

I think they are
more disturbed by
the way your breasts
press against mine,

our nipples hard
through thin tube tops.
our legs entwined
intimately.

So when the old
ladies with their
Bibles and tracts
stop to exhort,

I whisper in
your ear and you
giggle, then grab
me by the hair,

open my mouth
with a deep dyke
kiss. Our tongues play,
fingers caress,

until they leave,
almost running.
We've already
forgotten them,

reveling in
the taste of spring
and desire,
the feel of heat

burning brightly
within and warmth
glowing across
our hungry skins.

An alloy of
bronze and silver
melding into
one another.