Bedding the Butterfly
I watch you watch her wriggle
center stage, bait for the guy
with orange hair and bad voice
netting the throbbing crowd.
The guitar worships her,
kisses her sweet ass,
pubescent hips gyrating
in the doo-whap thick of the night.
I know you will grope me later,
imagining her instead,
her halter top tossed free
and floating-
your red sequined butterfly
of receding youth,
flutterdying
on our cold hardwood floor.
Pris Campbell
©2003
Published in Thunder
Sandwich
Jan 2005
Artwork: In the Heat of the Night
by Marques Vickers
Please click on his name to visit Marques Vickers' fascinating
site. He has appeared with my poetry several times. A California
artist, he works in a variety of mediums and he truly mesmerizes
with his talent.
Music: It's All Over Now
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