Porn
The two of them pound at each other like saws,
At one point joined, a pair of shears.
Her cries drown out the soundtrack of the film,
While he has called her every possible name
Besides her own
Which only she herself knows, anyway.
You could time the regularity of his thrusts,
The sureness of her hips that rise
To pull him down and into her,
Or mark the interval between
The moment he says he'll come
And the moment he comes.
Surely there must be something between them.
Surely there must be more
Than the rise of pudendum, the column of flesh,
The coarse chest hair which rasps against her breasts,
The smell of sweat that rises like a star.
But when he goes home to his girlfriend
And runs a work smoothed hand along her thigh
And enters her quietly, fearfully, like a church,
He moves to a slow-set metronome
And keeps his coming quiet when he comes.
And when she greets her husband at the door
Of the condo she bought for him, a sherry in hand,
She wears the quietest dress she has,
As unprovocative as a nun's worst habit.
And as she guides him into her that night,
She keeps her nails away from his back
For fear of breaking the all-too-tender skin,
And whimpers when she comes as a kitten does
When she looks for her mother from protection
From the cold.
� 1997 Tony Whitt
Tell me what you think!
Back to the Poetry Page
Back to the Space Age Batchelor Pad