Mold on my Think Stick
A woman once told me the most romantic sound she'd ever heard was that of a train in the night, in the far-off distance. She likened it to a powerful yet sexy force, reliable but dangerous, pounding away into the unknown.
I began to wonder... What is the most romatic sound I've ever heard? Could it be the early birds of a new dawn, welcoming the sun, teasing a lover and I after we've spent the night talking and laughing, all the while engulfed whithin each other's arms and our own autobiographies? Or, maybe it is that of an angry honeybee passing over two naive kids as they roll naked and shameless in a field of tall grass, hidden from their parent's watchful eyes? Could it be the ringing of my phone the next day to tell me she is at least interested in another date? Or her voice whispering in my ear, reassuring me that she likes the cut of my jib?
Maybe it's more vulgar than that; the sound of a woman, whom I know little of, moaning with surprise as I touch the areas that her lover has neglected. Or, the clammer of my headboard, as it triumphantly slams into my bedroom wall.
Suppose for a moment, that I appreciate the the sound of my flabby thighs smacking against the derriere of a woman from my dreams, or the woman of my last call.
Could these be the sounds I find to be most romantic? Or, am I simply too shallow for Shakespeare and too old for honeybees? Leaving only the sounds of the lust in my head and the rust in my ambition to imitate what true romance should sound like and be.
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Comments about this poem (Mold on my Think Stick by J.W. Frogg )
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