Slowly you open
each Mother of Pearl blouse button
and ask me
(as if this were a serious discussion)
“Do you like my tits..? ”
(it’s as if… there is a question mark at the end of an ellipsis
in your voice)
& then
(without giving me time for an answer)
you turn around
and pull up your skirt
“…or my bottom best? ”
I say “I’m sorry… what was the question again? ”
You frown
and I try to ponder the dilemma.
I love the display
the showing me the “bits”
just in case(you know) I had
forgotten what or where they were.
I’m only old…not senile.
Oh! I’m coming over all dizzy.
I ask can I go 50/50
and you scowl at me.
(“Come on down…come on down! ”
“Open the box…don’t open the box! ”
echoes inside me from the fabled land of faded telly) .
You accuse me of not taking this seriously.
Seriously…I am.
“Your bottom
(as you so politely put it)
is tops with me! ”
“But then…your top
is tops too! ”
“I can’t(I tell you)
break you into bits! ”
“I…I…love
the whole package! ”
“I love you
& the you I love
just happens to be
attached to
all these attractive bits! ”
“Oh…you never give me a straight answer! ”
You pout and put it all away.
“Oooooooooooooooooh! ”
You slouch
around the house
annoyed that I’m
not a bums or tits or leg man.
Next time
I think I’ll lie
and tell you(in truth) I’m more
the crease behind your left knee type of guy.
Guess…
I’m just your man
and I love a whole lot
of you
a lot.
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