Vodka and Condoms: II

A lot of legends surround my poem "Vodka and Condoms". This sequel, and those that follow over the next few days, they probably won't clear things up any further. And that's okay.

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the knock was soft, unsteady.
not certain if she was ready
to enter the doors kept locked at least by our cautions
despite the sometimes firecracker flirtations through windows
high enough to protect virtues
from curiosity and the short fuse
that could be lit by random touch or smile or sound
or the sudden awareness that we are alone when shadows abound.
"let me in" comes a small voice,
handing to me the Hobson's choice
of bowing to what is perhaps inevitable and desireable
but will sweep aside restraint for the gentle and feral.
"let me in" comes, again,
a voice closer than hers; man,
for I know what waits when falls the pretensed veil
that I may find dark eyes and precious thighs to draw my pale.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.