NO FRILLS by BRIAN KATES

She listened as I’d read my awkward lines of verse
at night, sitting, legs splayed and silent,
on the bed in shabby underpants–you could hardly
call them panties: faded cotton, color indeterminate, loose-fitting, frayed.
(Stray threads caressed her thighs; a poet in times past
might rhyme with envy on those loose ends).
Her breasts were full and firm. “Serious tits”
a randy office mate once called them–
though they weren’t averse to a little fun, now and again.
She always wore a bra. Business-like, I’d call it, if business
did not involve seduction: White, wide straps, no lace.
Chaste, you might also say. Suitable for some old lady
Or my muse.