Come, be the dear, sweet demon of my afternoon!
As I sit here, in this conclave of fools,
the beauty of your face, your breasts, your hips
torments my fancy. Below the board,
in its linen constraints my lust burgeons
while these humdrum souls debate banal plans
and the arcane meaning of their reports.
Oh, to be with you on this wintry afternoon!
With the passion of your body and the ardor of your smile,
to raze the routine of my pallid days, my business decorum!
At the noon hour to see your splendor,
that naked perfection of flesh’s sweet music,
your body moving in the light of desire!
…I can almost feel you moving beneath me
in our dance of magic, longing, madness.
Then you push me away and artfully climb
above my supine, quivering form
to mount at your pleasure, to ride at your will…
But they call me away from these randy visions,
to ledgers and columns and numbers sans cesse.
My eyes turn again to the prosaic,
my heart tumbles from the heaven you are.
Yet your beauty, your fire, your shimmering eyes
shall be with me still, wherever I am.
So, come! Lovely and loved and longed-for one!
You dear, sweet demon of my afternoon!
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2012