Body Heat 1o5 = The Pot Farmer & God's Poet
BODY HEAT 1O5
We drank several glasses of champagne
In the living room of her house.
Around 9: 30 that evening
I found myself in her blouse.
I fondled and kissed her so gently
Like the soft footsteps of a mouse.
To my surprise, she opened her eyes
And said, "look, we're not going to play house."
I right away replaced her clothing
And buttoned her blouse once more.
There was no doubt of my defeat
As I lay there upon the floor.
She said, "tell the truth, are you angry? "
I answered, by far I was not
'It's more important what you think of me
Than what I may not have got.'
She wiped away a tear from both eyes
And said, 'you're my kind of man.'
At that point, she did arise
And to me she held out her hand
She led me away like a blind man
Who had somehow lost his cane.
When we reached her bedroom door
I thought I'd gone insane.
Before long, we found ourselves naked
As she held me in her palm.
Can you dare imagine, my friend
How hard it was for me to stay calm?
We touched all the forbidden places
As our body heats reached 105.
If love's relief had not been achieved
I doubt if we'd still be alive.
THE POT FARMER
I got out my pipe and stuffed it with pot
You better believe, it held a whole lot.
I whipped out a lighter and thumbed up a flame
Then sucked down that smoke which comforts my brain.
I tried alcohol; and smoked cigarettes
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poem by Tom Zart
Added by Poetry Lover
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