Grant Me Your Hand Poem by John W. McEwers

I get down on my knees as if I was written by Chaucer I do.
I clasp my hands as if I were born in the back of an abandoned car.
Need is not the word, no.
I am greedy.
Voraciously greedy
For your attention.

I vomit lasciviously for you.
I am repulsive.
It is a desire befitting a mangy raccoon that runs through me.
To lavish you in my wretched hands would be supreme.
Covetous as I am
I quake
At your transcendence.