So Far He's Landed A Handshake
The year end school bell rings
as a young boy's heart sings.
His high school drought is over,
now he's off to sweet clover.
The innocent youthful summer ahead,
as a bamboo pole rises from the dead.
Sultry sun shines on his bed of tackle,
a hook, line and sinker she'll cackle.
He skips a stone on lake tops,
fish rainbows with his props.
Should he hunt, and find his first dear,
a date he sights with a cheer.
In the forests of his woods
lil dears preening for his goods.
Their poker eyes peek behind trees,
faking the wool over his glee.
Dreams she'd be riding up on his wings
pockets filled with Trojan kings.
He'd give her a poke on the river bed
but this fantasy is in his head.
Sweet overgrowth of her triple treats
living so large under his sheets.
His ******* spurts all over
the raw youthful hands discover.
So a young boy still has his blue *****
save for wet dreams and accidental calls.
Maybe he'll meet his dear soon
and give his cheer on her crescent moon.
Still there's a gleam in his eyes
of short skirts dancing in his blue skies.
As college life lies around the bend,
blossoming terrains can be a godsend.
Logan Robertson
6/08/17