The Confession

a poem by John Starks, USA

She told me that the poetry was hot -
So hot that she kicked covers off the bed,
And thought of things which she, alone, should not,
E'en what some prude, ere thinking of, should dread.
She told me that she wanted, so, to shout
As members do, who hear good news in church,
And that she wanted, too, to leap about,
As she, yet fretting, seemed in passion's lurch.
Hence I did proffer to fight fire with fire,
To cool her flames with unremitting heat,
And thusly mitigate unquenched desire
With what, to euphemize, is counted sweet.
She, thus confessing, burned my telephone,
And I nigh swear I heard her sigh and moan.

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