By Edd B. Jennings
I have the luck to cross paths
With good looking women
With hard little bodies.
In the throes of passion,
Few particularly object if I quote
The Rubaiyat or Keats.
Such receptiveness rarely translates
Into a desire to peruse the over-boilings
Of my seedy imagination.
When it’s time.
Rather than offering the talk,
As I wistfully look into the distance,
And explain with great regret
Of wandering over the next hill
I offer them some of my work,
Something that expresses the true me
In undeniable, indelible prose.
Does the trick.