This or that

 

(date unknown)

 

 

Ever since he was a small boy

Peopled down him

It was not polite to stare

A lesson he could never get

Into his head
when it came to her,

She being perfect art

With all the pieces coming together

And he unable to do anything else,

A bumbling mass

Of inarticulate uttering

With which to try and describe

What he sees,

Or how he feels

Or even more shocking

What he would like to do,

Knowing he is too clumsy

Or inexperienced to ever

Create such a work of art himself

And must settle for merely

Letting his fingers stroke

Out the lines of her masterpiece

In the vain hope he might get

Some sense of the still more

Amazing interior he might never see,

Or touch, let alone understand,

Aching to move

Along its satin surface

With the occasional hope

He might plunge inside

Hoping that in this brief contact

He might connect

This to that

Or that what lies inside

Might rub off on him.