PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I was thirteen years old, or no more than fourteen.
My long hair was a wild mop when not slicked down.
My baggy tee-shirt, tie-dyed in metallic colors
was considered subversively psychedlic
by my parents, who had been informed of this
on conservative talkshows broadcast on A M
(F M was far too progressive for them).
The wide bell-bottoms of my faded jeans
did not quite conceal my surreptitious bare feet,
grass-stained and street-grimed while my parents
were absent on one of their summertime shopping sprees.

I was sitting, cross-legged, on the backporch swing.

You surprised me at the back-gate and walked in,
wearing a similar tee-shirt and jeans---
both of which emphasized your fulsome curves;
and I was a scrawny stick in mine,
"not very manly"---my parents' term,
often repeated to me with obvious shame;
"not manly at all with dirty bare feet."

You had left your shoes provocatively at home;
your feet sheathed in socks, of deep "hunter green."
You joined me on the swing, and we began to rock,
and then to kiss---with tonguing wild and wet.
We must have kissed a hundred times or more:
the old farts, had they been there, would have shrieked in shock.

Starward