I am in love with a married, mother of two.
A caustic wit and a crystal eye
and skin that melts across ivory bone.
When she serves my drinks I would they tasted like her
and I think she knows or has been told.
I try not to covet but forgive me I falter
as her small frame and wrists and crystal eyes float above the
mahogany.
I don't usually put them up there,
up on the shelf where guests can admire
but this one, this one is an explosive.
I hope that they send me pardons for feeling
such a shameful thing.
But this married mother of two,
too late for me,
has a lover
should a divorce
go through.
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