O’Brien fancied his mother’s best friend,
Mrs O’Hara, she with the daughter
Who showed her panties to boys for sixpence.
How are you, Micheal? She asked, as she sat
With legs crossed in the kitchen between sips
Of milky sweet tea. I’m fine, he replied,
Studying her legs, trying to pursue
With his greedy eyes, the length of her thighs.
How old are you now? Her soft voice inquired.
Fourteen, he replied. He lifted his sight
To her weighty breasts, picturing his head
Wedged tightly between. Don’t sit their gawping,
Go get to your play, his plump mother said.
He took a last look, trying to capture
Mrs O’ Hara with her legs and breasts
And what lay beneath, for his nightly dreams
In his sweaty bed, be they wet or dry,
And gave her a smile and wink of his eye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem