.
.
.
I want to push my muse up against the wall.
Slowly.
I want to run my hand up her toga,
stroking her tanned Greek leg
(unshaven)
and as I press myself to her
whisper in her ear,
"Give me the poem, you Aegean tart."
She'll give a low grunt,
grab my crotch, grin and whisper back
"You can't handle Aegean,
you Midwestern hick,
but touch me there again,
and I'll show you a real ocean."
And I'll touch her once more
and answer
"I'd ride that tide
all the way out."
.
.
.
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