Hot And Present Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She stepped into his suite,
as per request, in miniskirt,
a chiffon blouse
and nothing down below.
He made her wait,
the scribbling went on
and he could see she did,
(all women do get bored) ,
her hand now strayed
into her lap, two digits raised
in languid expectation.
He asked about it then
and she replied, oh nothing Sir,
but went ahead and looked
into dilated eyes,
legs well apart,
there was no skirt
nor would a skirt be missed,
a flash of shaven pink,
reflecting in its dew
a miniature of Robin Hood,
who nodded as he gazed
into the valley called Beyond,
a spring seems to have sprung,
its flow a careless ease
until a rhythm from within
takes on a cadence of a life
whose only purpose is to die
repeated little deaths, each day
a throbbing presence, light and gay
his mouth attracted now to be
within the essence of all sin.
Hands busy, fleshy towers raising high
two buttons soon competing, quick to swell,
inside expansion, losing grip, a liquid tide
without cognition's condescending sober ride.