I was looking through my Myspace blog, and I discovered a poem I had forgotten about. Sometimes I go through massive writing phases, and after I don't remember every single poem that was written--- thankfully, I do store them away. I think I want to revisit this poem, edit it, and see what happens.
During the day they communicate:
She asks him to pick up the dry cleaning;
he tells her he has a late business lunch.
It's not like at night when they're in bed
keeping their thoughts to themselves.
She lies beside him,
knows it'll be a love-making night
when she feels his hardness;
she doesn't even get wet.
She wishes he'd take what he wants,
hold her down with one hand
while the other traces her over her clit
finding it's way inside her, opening,
until he's ready to shove his member in.
Hell, he could gag and tie her;
it'd only make her dilate more.
But she fears what he'd think.
He lies beside her,
knows it's a fucking night
because he can't take the thought
of having to use his shampoo to beat off
in the shower the next morning.
He wishes she'd be more creative:
put him in diaper,
make him "breast feed,"
spank him with her hand
because a time out isn't punishment enough
for such a bad, bad boy.
He wants her to threaten
to spank him with a ruler.
Hell, five years of missionary,
she could spank him with anything.
But he fears what she'd think.
That's their story--
predictable like a Golden Girls rerun,
always the same,
like a red light following a yellow.