At the podium, the famous poet is having sex with his wife <br />in the poem he reads tonight. He uses the four-letter word. <br /> <br />The act is all ankles and elbows, slits and staffs, grunting, <br />sweating, and unnaturally assumed positions. Naturally, <br />I'm embarrassed because I can see the famous poet's wife <br /> <br />squirming in her chair as he caresses the heft of her breast, <br />the eager spread of her knees, and a tiny, beautiful blemish <br /> <br />none of us will ever see. Handy with his tongue, he speaks <br />of that moment her thighs muffled his ears in her passion <br /> <br />and lingers on a lonely moment when her rush of pleasure <br />left him behind. The ladies are glassy-eyed. The men nod <br />and grin. I'm shifting in my seat. The famous poet's wife <br /> <br />sighs as the last line kisses the poet's lips. Some of us clap, <br />and the applause raises her husband's head from his work.<br /><br />Eric Paul Shaffer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-famous-poet-s-wife/
