- Erotic Poetry
- The Picnic
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She drove her Runabout, the '29,
A Jordan I recall. The top was down.
Her sundress was white dots in vivid wine,
The hue which also trimmed the brim and crown
Of her straw hat. The images don't fail
These many years. We bounced into a field
Of Timothy. She'd had the hired help flail
A picnic spot amidst the waist-high yield.
I spread a Persian remnant. We reclined.
The zinfandel and salmon were well-chilled.
She drew her knees up, her exposed behind
Devoid of lingerie. I almost spilled
My wine. "How do I look at thirty eight?"
She chirped. Then teasingly she watched my eyes.
I held her stare, responding, "You look great!
This picnic is a wonderful surprise!"
"Then look at me," she urged. I let my gaze
Drop to the naked principalities
Decreed off-limits. (Woe to one who strays
Afield!) Her jeweled fingers held her knees
Together. Lodged between her upper thighs--
Inverted, sacrosanct and Negri-pale--
Was winsome cunt. She wondered, "Do you guys
Go out for picnics of this sort at Yale?"
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