Naked she stood before me, her eyes glistening
with youthful Hispanic desire and the elegance
of her people wrapped in New York 77th Street silk
and I broke my heart as I knew I could not satisfy
that what was given freely.
I shuddered as the eleven thirty seven rays of sunshine
hit the window that hid the opulence that blinded
me temporarily to the disease that wanted to be shared
like a needle holding a myriad of confessions
and the straight jacket of conformity.
Naked, she was always naked,
never without, never outdoors
but naked within and the sweet
taste of perfume
lingered on my tongue at Midnight.
Always naked
I felt conspicuous in my own skin,
never the one for the grand gesture,
I shied away from such moments
and the physical pain it placed in me
was one that has hardly seen me dance since,
such stock in such ideals, not mine to own.
Naked,
unless company called
or was announced, was I company?
I certainly never came to heel
when she called and I believe to this day
that’s why she liked me more than the Hispanic boys
who teased her and would satisfy that feral craving
she presented like
Pandora’s Box with open casket and the only
gift to the young man from England
was hope.
The caress was short lived, the lure of the road
too demanding
and the life on offer,
the sacrifice she demanded to an ideal,
was one that I could not give in to,
Naked,
Naked was not for me.
Ian D. Hall 2015