We’re in the home stretch of National Poetry Month. You’re almost there, kids. And since you’re already struggling, let’s do a poem that’s sure to make you really uncomfortable.
I admit it. I like to watch you squirm.
***
Hips
There’s something about her hips.
The way they’re spread wide
and far, like the rumor of
good things to come.
The way the curve of them
begs for hands to grip
just at the top, squeeze,
hold on for the ride of your
Life.
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