Seventy Percent of Backrubs Lead to Sex

A wrinkled white shirt,
red in the light of the fire,
burns my palms as I exert

a gift-wrapped desire,
as my hands entwine,
pause, and climb higher.

My fingers find a line
on which to go down
the bony, exposed spine,

to knead the bound
boyish waist,
from which I move around

to the thighs, still chaste,
for these hands can caress,
but my lips need a taste

of this enticing flesh
that softens as it warms.
I try to make our shirts mesh,

and know he will awaken in these tired arms.

A. Popp
1992

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