She tilts her head and looks at him.
He, (nervous as a virgin,
late at night, in a borrowed backseat)
wrings his hands like a priest.
But his prayers are in vain.
Langurously munching his back leg
like a post coital cigarette,
she stares at me,
the alien milkiness of her eyes
in the voyeuristic ring
of my magnifying glass.
Such debauchery in a
quiet suburban garden!
This was inspired by the friday five at poefusion – to write a poem using the words backseat, ring, priest, garden, magnifying glass.
I was going to post an image to go with it, but decided it reduced the impact of the poem… here is a link to the picture that was in my mind as I wrote it.