At nineteen;
Stalking the girl
With slender legs;
tight skirt
In my dreams.
It was the way
She moved her hips
That trapped my imagination
Driving it crazy.
Maybe it was that sly smile
And the way she tilted her head.
Her neck
Was a moving
Advertisement
For lewd lips.
And her ears
Made me sweat
And lose sleep.
What did you expect
From a guy, a poet?
That he would write about
Chasing a hot chocolate fudge
On Sunday
Or
An iced A&W root beer
On Friday
With a scoop of vanilla floating
In the foam.
Come on,
Get serious.
The real target was me
Sitting on top of a bunker
In Vietnam reading a
Dear Lloyd Letter
From my mother
Telling me I couldn’t
Have the girl of my dreams.
After all,
She was fourteen and
Did write to me
Asking what my favorite dish was.
She said,
“I want to cook for you
when you fly home from the war.”
I wanted to write back with
The truth—
That she was what I wanted.
The heck with food!
That was when the sniper
Watching me
from the distant tree line
Reading my lost love obituary
took his shot.
Who said, “Close
Only counts in horse shoes?”
I didn't see
Who pulled the trigger.
_____________________________
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Delicious target indeed! And how well you paint the object of desire for us..."her neck was a moving advertisement for lewd lips"...so vivid and rich...and that great strong ending when you die of love and for it...and live to share with us.
John
And beyond...to continue to amaze us and amuse us with your pen.
This is so well done, my friend, I shrink in envy. -gene.
A slender legged, wiggle hipped girl, your imagination almost your undoing. WOW. Shot through the heart ... by the girl and nearly so by the enemy. Vividly imaged and penned, sparse lines carry the reader from beginning to end, leaving the reader (this one, anyway) in awe from the power of your words. Well done.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.