My body chooses to misunderstand
the slightest softest touch, quivers to flame.
My prudent mind is reddened by the shame.
Uncalled for lust leaps forward to command.
Reciting Yeats I stare into their eyes
see passion to be taught. I know no lust
is there, and I would not abuse their trust.
And yet when I am taken by surprise
Sweet arse in shorts jumps down into my lap
soft teasing arms are thrown around my neck
my good intentions nearly go to wreck.
Yet never do. It's shame preserves the gap
between a vague lascivious dream or hope
and sweaty kiss or quite unwelcome grope.