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.