A Wandering Minstrel's Eye

 

A Wandering Minstrel's Eye

 

 

So, one man’s panoramic disease

to become another man’s gift.

He should have crossed regions,

traversed those continental drifts,

but all those red and amber lists.

Had he a travelling pair of hands

and a wandering minstrel’s eye,

a skin so sensitive it must stiffen

to see her full shape shimmer by.

 

Show don’t tell of their bodies’ heats

mingling and closing, side to side,

don’t even touch, just hang it loose,

forbidden fruit in squeezed juice,

when her dull living begins its sting,

call a wandering minstrel’s hands in.

Her fretful eyes, he all a-fingering,

strumming bass notes soft and low,

her voice silk trembling baritone.

 

She catches his roving eye, all shy,

stifling a cry, crosses both thighs

right modestly. Like hot desert dry

licks cracking lips, peels back his skin,

swift hands are busy doing pocketing,

fumbling with loose change, jangled

throbbing up in all 45-degree angles,

wandering minstrel’s lightning rhythm

two-two hard rock duets fast driven.

 

Time to irrigate dry sand, he knows

to inspect up close her trembling rose

with minstrel’s fingers. Such a dripping

delicious spread, his mouth swimming

in water, kneels in harvest  at her altar.

Her fingers tangle hairs, push it there,

a travelling pair, groaning her prayers

to virus fair, for all these coming years:

A wandering minstrel’s song ever hers.