A Professional Woman Poem by James McLain

She didn't even want to, then thought to do it.
Trying to send such silky experience, over here
to touch my rigid softness...moons why..?
For what, to know me, the I of it, inside of me? but why..?
Had I fallen in her, the trap, rimed in pink folds of heavenly
she would have slain me, drained me,
Eaton me, milked me
it, he, the me, in her, but why..?
I am hard, harder than buttered pecan trees,
she is a professional,
sex is her weapon of choice, her graze.
I should have then, wept throaty,
gutturals of both spread in ways..only heaven knows why..not?