Michael, i see you are incorrigible. not another sonnet, you naughty boy:
stop it NOW! before i give you a good chiding. And why does it always have
to be me that puts the clothes away? You poets are all the same, lying
around in bed, thinking about sex when there's housework to be done, and
then prentending it's all for the sake of another sonnet.
wystan
-----Original Message-----
From: Michael Snider [mailto:[log in to unmask]]
Sent: Wednesday, 18 July 2001 4:30 p.m.
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: Another sonnet ...
sonnets is what I do, mostly --
Putting Clothes Away
Lazy, I lie in bed and watch you bend
Over the drawer, knees apart, your dress
Barely reaching your thighs. I don't intend
To take you from your work, just caress,
Lightly, your supple calf, but then my hand
Gets notions of its own and when you stop,
A little, noticing, moves on. You stand
Up half annoyed and half about to drop
Every stitch. My fingers undo folds
Of flesh and find the button just inside --
My breath unravels when you press, then hold
My hand away. "You stop it now!" you chide --
"Get up! I told you there was work to do --
We'll see how that thing fits when we get through."
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