Her legs are like,
well, they look like
- silksoft, breatheably suffused
all through with a blushing glow,
if white could blush. 'Cause, you know,
they're pretty pale. I'm
not a racist, but her legs,
man
hers are nice. There's nothing between
us
that gives me the right
to obsess over her, so
technically I'm not. Any part
of that, I just
looked it up. To "obsess"
means something
really DUMB
man, I don't get it. People
are weird and that's
a fact. Her legs,
though,
make up for the rest
of us, in the balance
of natural things,
wherever there's lack.
With the strength in them,
and
woo.
You know? Everything else that ostensibly exists
crowds for the exits of my mind to make room, for
just what's coming in
through my eyes, to glow in my
love-heart
eyes,
pow
zoom
whenever I see
her legs.
I'm really not even
a "leg man" to be
honest,
usually
1 comment:
This is actually "Rejected legs poem #2", but, you know. The third and considered winning entry in the oddly-numbered, disconcertingly-so "legs trilogy":
http://apocketfulofpoesy.blogspot.com/2017/11/laid-back-legs.html
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