|Posted on May 7, 2011 at 3:10 AM|
He hates it the week you’re on the rag
As he terms it, the big drag,
Depressing deprivation, but you hate it
For deeper reasons that he can feel,
Another month where your seed’s
Unblessed with life or babe.
You aren’t ready yet, he claims,
Running a finger down your spine,
Hoping to turn you on,
Wanting to romp out of season,
Best wait until the promotion
And the money’s upfront,
And besides there’s plenty time
For that kind of thing,
Baby cries, disturbed nights,
Feeding, changing, shit
And puke and endless piss.
He sneaks in for a full frontal kiss.
But you sense the wanting even more.
Feel the phantom tugging at your dugs,
Sense a baby in your arms, the soft
And warm and tiny feeling fingers
Along your arm and feeble breasts.
You sense his finger push between
Your thighs and touch the rag.
He moves away and mutters:
Some men go to whores to fuck
When their sex shop is shut
And the rag shutter’s up.
His words are muffled
In the waves of disappointment
Full flowing over you
In the dark seas of night,
And he hoping against hope
That even now you might.