When she reached on tip-toe
To pull down the hazelnut
From above the La Marzocco,
Her shirt would ride up to reveal
Four lines of poetry in the smallest,
Most minute, illegible font;
A green quatrain tattooed upon
Her yoga-sculpted abdomen,
An inch below and to the side of
Her elegantly protruding hip-bone.
Looking, but trying
Not to look as if he looked,
Curious, shy, but obsessing
Over the content and meaning
Of this pelvic verse,
He imagined it to be
A message solely for a lover’s eyes,
In Sanskrit, Greek, or Aramaic;
Anglo Saxon or Middle English.
He dreamed of placing
His head in her hands,
Reading and savoring
Her indelible, obscure,
Indecipherable text.
Gary Witt
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fine-print/
