My muse pressed up against me,
got my thigh wedged as a couch
cushion on a hot and heavy date.
My muse spoke a good language,
his lips thick with myrr
and accented ale, he slurred
in my general direction,
but actually was logically sound,
even as one glance into his eyes
revealed the chaos in his clutch.
He inspired me, unwieldy as he
stood, and I let him crush the
nighttime circulation out of my
humid heavings, though denim
is usually too thick to penetrate.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
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