Wedge a circus peanut in her
pencil line cleavage.
Take a picture, trigger purr.
Contemplate his eyes receiving
her lure, taunt, tease
in the montage invading his computer screen.
But he didn’t stage this.
But he did.
He groomed her
long ago, and most people
know he’s the trapeze artist
who loves to lay
low in between performances
of the highest finest polished
precise poetic lines; have fun, explore this
merry go round, try
this primary bench, bench that kaleidoscope
of colors, cozy in, in
win all the seats fancy and plain
along with all the cities of horses
ready to pant, prance for him.
He can’t be exclusive, what with the
candy-coated welcome of each carousel,
yet proclaims he still can be serious
charmed with her hardly-ever-being-saddled
vintage. With love, always promises her
his return, his best cube of sugar
to lick. But she waits, waits,
while competition mocks her
the swan, the unicorn, and that pig
love to tickle her mane,
so she finds her own prop, he’ll surely mark clever,
penis-worthy, breathes up, down, in, out, peak-a-boo-peach.
Then with thumb and forefinger, gently
pulls out, startled by her own farse. Let’s make this real.
One nibble. Swallow. Two. Over.
Whinnies herself back.