She exposes her vulnerability to me sitting there in that old chair next to the window, where the light is good for viewing and I can see her treasure chest of graying hairs matted by her nylon panties and the sloppy seconds of her last lover of the morning.
She is much older now and knows what she wants and what she wants is to make
one more incriminating DNA deposit on the slipcover of that chair before I can say no.
Her fingers on her right hand are busy spreading those pink full lips of her womanhood as the other fingers on her left hand gather the moist dew like a humming bird’s beak.
Her skin, alabaster in color and slightly looser than thirty years ago when we first met,
still makes my erection grow as I smell the country apple scent of the douche she uses after sex, permeate the stale air of my old memories of us dining on each other’s parts like two desperate animals who are about to be caged forever and a lifetime. I used to bury my face in her for hours before taking a break and she could sit on my rock solid commitment to her body as if she knew she was my only lover at the time….but time moves on and sometimes we don’t….
Alas, she smiles at me and closes her eyes as her gentle purring beckons me to feed….
2007 © T Sheridan
Ted Sheridan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-erotic-sunday-brunch/
