The Game Poem by David McLansky

He has Robert Redford's boyish locks
His silver eyes are such a shock
Such good teeth, his smile is warm,
A pleasing well proportioned form;

He teases with all-knowing cheer;
He asks you if you'd like a beer,
Or whatever you might be drinking,
And all the while those eyes are thinking;

He jokes and plays with such finesse
His finger tips your arm caress;
He plays the game with grace and charm
He leaves such tingles on your arm.

He removes some lint caught on your dress
Again another soft caress,
He strokes your cheek, you lips, your hair;
'My God, ' you think, 'It isn't fair.'

You hope your body's good enough
You taunt to please and call his bluff;
Tipsy before his hotel door
You kiss his lips and ask for more.

Afterwards while in the shower,
Having spent with him an hour
The memory begins to sour
'A test of his seductive power? '