Skirt

When she was six,

The girl was enrolled in private school.

They issued a blouse, white,

Socks,

A tee-shirt with a school logo,

And a pleated, plaid skirt.

 

They reissue the socks,

And the blouse, white,

And the tee-shirt with a school logo

Every year.

 

The skirt is made of sterner stuff.

 

When the girl first wore it,

It fell below her knees.

 

Each year the girl grows

And the skirt creeps up,

And up,

And up,

 

And up,

 

Until,

In the way of the world,

Concealment becomes its opposite.

 

There is no equivalent

For school boys.

 

The injustice of this

Has so far

Gone unnoticed.

 

 

 

Mastiff

She walks with quick, little steps,

Arms stiff,

Wooden, as if

Fearful of calamity.

 

Her breasts, however,

Parting the world before her,

They have a life of their own,

And she,

She is walking them,

As she would an unleashed

Mastiff,

Nervously aware

Of the danger they present.

 

 

The Old Ram Rod

I am told,

As I push 70,

That I should show some subtlety,

Some finesse,

Be less obvious,

That it is somehow wrong,

Even unbecoming,

At my age, or any other,

To write of sweet curves

Welcoming thighs,

Glistening lips…

To write of the misdeeds

Of that old, bald-headed rogue,

Who always grins his

You can’t fuck flowers motif.

But,

While that billy still butts,

I’ll give the birds,

And the bees,

And the cigarette trees,

Lovely blossoms waving in the breeze,

And tired old Decency, itself

A bye.