Ankle

His back to me,

seated on the rail,

leaning conversationally

toward a couple of friends,

talking with his hands,

amusing his companions,

straw hair over

Nordic-white skin,

broad shoulders draped

with cornflower tee,
one denim-wrapped leg
crossed under the other,
showing skin between

jeans and trainers.

 
I’ve read of scandalous
flashes of flesh
in Victorian novels
and laughed at prudery

of such extremity

that a mere glimpse

of ankle could arouse,

even doubtful of its truth,

but now I get it,

and I want him,

having never even

looked into his eyes

to see them smile.

Touché, Victorians.

 

Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper

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Kit/No Kit

He’s still in his football kit,

blue and white, minus the jersey;

he stripped it off leaving the pitch,

after the match, in no hurry.

 

Eyes perfectly match his side’s colours;

blond, short around, on top fuller;

some stubble, looks like he shaves

when he feels like it on occasion.

 

I’m not particularly a supporter,

but he could convert me in short order,

share a pint at the local, all that,

then find our way back to his flat.

 

I’d like to see him from every angle,

yank off those shorts and see what dangles.

We could shag in union holy–

I’m just glad he’s not a goalie,

 

because I’m fancying a score.

 

Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper