When she reached on tip-toe <br />To pull down the hazelnut <br />From above the La Marzocco, <br />Her shirt would ride up to reveal <br />Four lines of poetry in the smallest, <br />Most minute, illegible font; <br />A green quatrain tattooed upon <br />Her yoga-sculpted abdomen, <br />An inch below and to the side of <br />Her elegantly protruding hip-bone. <br /> <br />Looking, but trying <br />Not to look as if he looked, <br />Curious, shy, but obsessing <br />Over the content and meaning <br />Of this pelvic verse, <br />He imagined it to be <br />A message solely for a lover’s eyes, <br />In Sanskrit, Greek, or Aramaic; <br />Anglo Saxon or Middle English. <br /> <br />He dreamed of placing <br />His head in her hands, <br />Reading and savoring <br />Her indelible, obscure, <br />Indecipherable text.<br /><br />Gary Witt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fine-print/
