Erotica

It is not what you think,
not the lurid images from pulp fiction
hidden in the basement
of your grandfather’s garage,

or the painfully well lit perfection
promised on news stands, almost camouflaged,
almost shown.
You cannot find it on the internet,

despite it’s promise, so full of lies
and destruction. No.
It lives in the gentlest touch of her hand,
the soft kiss as you see her for the first time again

at the end of the day.
It is the dress in the store
that sets your imagination singing,
knowing how each bit of fabric

will lay as it falls over her hips.
It is the smell of the woman who passes you
on the city street, whose perfume
brings back summer afternoons on porch swings.

It is everywhere.
Everywhere,
because she too is everywhere,
permeating your mind and heart

like the sweet smell of honeysuckle
on a summer’s eve.
saturating your soul
and filling your mind’s eye

until everything you see,
reminds you
of her.

About this poem. 

They tell me I am too old to feel this way, at almost 58. So I don’t tell them, and write poetry instead.

Tom

PS – the photograph was taken in Roanoke, Virginia, at one of my favorite stores on the city market, La-De-Da.