I’m sitting with “The Flowers of Evil”-
a small reading-lamp the only light in an
otherwise dark room.
Back from a jog, you silently appear
hip-cocked in the doorway,
dirty blonde shook forward,
framing Lopez lips
in an incredible ensemble
of white cotton panties
and gym socks.
I tilt the shade like a spotlight
thinking maybe a little bump & grind,
instead you drop to your knees –
your reality more intense than
one could possibly write –
ever so lewdly crawls across the Persian rug,
gives even the goldfish
gooseflesh and a hard-on.
No one could make you up,
not even Baudelaire.