We once threw caution to the wind
on a drunken night of spree.
It was just two teens having a good time
with smuggled beer and lost inhibitions,
parked on lover's lane.
This was back in '74,
and I remember Terry Jack's
crooning Season's In The Sun,
the radio music guiding us along.
The moon and stars stood watching in horror,
their hands covering it's mouth in shock,
and her father's wrath soon following suit,
his hands ruffling a kids feathers.
But who regresses?
At first we walked over twigs,
careful like,
soft kisses here,
soft kisses there.
The usual fare,
where we knew the line in the sand
was the console and gear stick,
her father's subtle reminder.
Yet this time we ran *******.
Like two polar bears snuggling,
in a tree of a magic forest.
At first, playfully
touching our noses,
eyes a dancing,
and lips a smacking,
pausing at new discoveries,
magic dust floating in our eyes.
Our breathing turning into moans.
The wonderful fur.
Then auto pilot kicked in
and my seeing eye dog springing to life,
leaping onto her bucket seat,
onto her,
her eyes and face inviting,
our maiden voyage
chaste,
all natural,
erecting in flames.
Our little hearts a racing,
racing,
racing,
keeping up to the rhythm of the sea,
riding the wave into shore,
expended,
like two beach whales,
basking in the moment.
And it was a glorious moment
introspective of whom you ask.
Our lives grew from that night on,
years later into beautiful blossoms,
and her father,
yes her father,
the last of the forgives me not,
now preens over his granddaughter,
and her daughter. 

Logan Robertson

9/14/17