— The Chaffin Journal, 2006, p. 27
I was fifteen when I first sniffed
Your long, blonde pony-tail hair
Draped down your thirty-something figure;
The tips of your hair would lie level with
Your mountain tops I’d want,
Not your boy whom I babysat.
His high-pitched mutter cried
For football, catch, or talk of sex.
Once your squeaky son led me
To your plastic penis, where I
Started to pant and let it move me.
After getting paid I would dream
Of walking up the driveway and behind
A bush to watch your tender buckets, cooked
Medium-rare through your window of wonder.
In bed, before sleep conquered consciousness
I’d wet the sheets. My dagger
dry and dormant was fueled again
The day your boy stopped by with dropped
Voice. I asked about you. I thought
If ever we shall meet again
Let us not waste time but make
Haste to the nearest green blanket
Below the stars to steal away the night.