Her thighs are drums
I play on the veranda steps
and from the insides come that thwack,
that thwack that speeds the sunset, that
thwack that softens friendship, then
plies it into a ring not easily broken.
Yet more are her thighs her thighs her thighs
her thighs are the entrée
her thighs are the sweetest course
her thighs . . .
I hum with happiness at the ability to touch
to press, to comfort my head on those thighs
to warm and stick my cheeks to those thighs,
her thighs, her sun-setting thighs.