Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
nicole-lourettePoems
An empty park picnic table cooled by the light, whispering breeze, spotted by the burning life-giving sun. I see us there. chatting, laughing, enjoying each others company in this never-ending summer. I see myself dressing up as the wife, laying out a picnic basket and table cloth. Pouring iced tea into a chilled glass, Watching the condensation slide down your fingertips as your throat gulps in the refreshment. I lay a blanket on the grass, inviting you to come sit. We lay. And that chuckling breeze picks up and lifts the whole of my 1950s homemaker dress. You smooth it back down, lowering your hand on my hip. The wind has stopped, but you keep smoothing away… down my thighs, across my backside, up my back, until my head is cupped in your hands nearing closer to your face. I would not call it a kiss, because a “kiss” is too short a word, too precise and too emotionless to fit this phenomenon. You embrace me fully leaving no passion unaccounted for, no ounce of me left untouched. I succumb to your embrace and we start to make love when… A car horn beeps. I blink. Look around, and remember that I’m sitting in a library parking lot looking at an empty picnic table.
0
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
A Picnic Table
An empty park picnic table cooled by the light, whispering breeze, spotted by the burning life-giving sun. I see us there. chatting, laughing, enjoying each others company in this never-ending summer. I see myself dressing up as the wife, laying out a picnic basket and table cloth. Pouring iced tea into a chilled glass, Watching the condensation slide down your fingertips as your throat gulps in the refreshment. I lay a blanket on the grass, inviting you to come sit. We lay. And that chuckling breeze picks up and lifts the whole of my 1950s homemaker dress. You smooth it back down, lowering your hand on my hip. The wind has stopped, but you keep smoothing away… down my thighs, across my backside, up my back, until my head is cupped in your hands nearing closer to your face. I would not call it a kiss, because a “kiss” is too short a word, too precise and too emotionless to fit this phenomenon. You embrace me fully leaving no passion unaccounted for, no ounce of me left untouched. I succumb to your embrace and we start to make love when… A car horn beeps. I blink. Look around, and remember that I’m sitting in a library parking lot looking at an empty picnic table.
nicole-lourette
Written by
nicole-lourette
American
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem