I slept on her lap, and she on mine

And of the two

I most preferred the times

When my head was laid

Against her thigh.

She had a way of purring to me;

Of quieting the troubled dreams that

Came whenever I closed my eyes.

She would play amongst the tendrils of my hair

And cry out when something caught a fingernail

That she could poke or prod or scrape

Into oblivion. But for the most part, she let me slumber

And touched my face with the feathers

That graced the ends of her adoring fingertips.  

Most times, I slept in her lap

With my head turned towards

The riotous world. But sometimes,

When I chanced boldly, my head twisted the

Other way. Then she would close her legs like a vise

So tightly that her twinned thighs left no gap

For me to dream or fantasize.

Still, it made no matter;

The warm sweet musk of her untouched

Sex would waft inside my nostrils

And I would smile for the future dream

I never truly realized.

And then, on those rainy days

When we were alone

And I was that bold rapscallion

I have often been accused of knowing first-hand

I would, like a viper, uncoil my neck

And press my lips against a trembling

Denim Y.

She would start and oooooh and

Slap my cheek, but never very hard.

“Go to sleep, you,” she laughed softly,

When her thighs ceased their ululating

Sighs. “Just go to sleep.”

11/16/2002

Posted on 11/16/2002
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch