Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Jilted Doris is always late,

Jilted Doris is always late,
last in line but first ignored.
She drags herself with all that running
chasing lately tails of crazes:
hairless or trimmed, shaven or shapened,
colored or bleached, painted or sun-bronzed, a
woman's appearance must never be wrong.
Rejected, dejected, she pushed aside, ejected,
or in this way submerged, enfolded. So,
She hides herself from worldly men,
showing so sparingly her face so warily,
though what good this does her by then?
Men maladapted, on bodies disinformed—novice
only rub her wound, grind it down, pushing around,
never knowing the joy she bides inside,
her wanting to come clean.

For here a sweet secret—Doris, she tries.
She often will get there, arriving just in her time.
"Come, all ye faithful, ye patient, ye kind,"
she says to herself, says in soft tones,
says in words sounding like moans.
Watch her there if she let you,
Learn her theres if she guide you.
Since neither appearance nor charade,
Not a mystery nor a fraud,
Just honestly listen, will you please, our
so-called "Lackwit" Doris says stop:
She'll learn you something new. So be taught.

Poor forgotten Doris, all their attention but
none of it paying, all their handling but
none of it caring, all that image but
none of it showing how eagerly you open
and move and hide, wanting a chasing
embracing day ride. You aren't simple,
more like a riddle, each time deliciously new.
I like having no answers, no plans, no methods.
A code every time, cryptic passwords sought
My fingers do the talking, your nodding proves I ought
I like exploring, bidden to come each time,
each twitch, each movement of you,
being led by adventure, by bit in my mouth.

I'm sorry, I'm distracted, I got my place wrong,
I had inkling of it, yet another time.

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