Thighs.

by Steven J. Serafiani

She spread her thighs like a
bridge in Palm Beach;
tan milk fingertip prowl. Is
this all we crave? A Union
Station stopover? Create with
rubbers til pro.

coils compressed
ear bitten
flesh in flesh upon flesh
warmth that human heat.

We hummed like a symphony without
a DNA section then lit
a park avenue smoke
in a curled breeze. and with
a siamese nicotine chin
up, we exclaim ; “This is
all we crave.”

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