Tortured
Her bra drops to the floor from underneath
Her shirt. Her shirt remains. She smiles
At me fiendishly. “Would you like to watch
Me dance?” I nod. I needn't have, I know.
She writhes and her breasts beckon to me.
I reach out, but she steps back and shakes
Her head. “It isn't time.” I now wonder
Whether I'll survive to see the evening through.
If I do, I fear that it will prove to be
Quite long.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck

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Written on 2022-06-30 at 00:05



