Musings by The Poet Loriet
Sheepish
Woody Allen delayed their first kiss.
Blame it on him,
that silly scene where the shepherd
fell in love with his sheep.
Listening to Styx, "Don't Let It End,"
he caressed her arms, held her hand,
looked into her eyes, leaned in,
and she started to giggle.
"I can't help it," she squealed.
"I was thinking about sheep!"
Resigned, he sank back in his seat,
massaged his temples, and sighed.
They talked for a while,
sang off key, laughed together,
and as the hour grew later,
dozed intermittently, reaching out
to pat each others hand or smooth
a wayward strand of hair.
He dimmed the lights, rewound the c.d.
to, "Don't Let It End," stood up,
and took her hand, pulling her to her feet.
It was two a.m.
They danced an innocent slow dance
like two junior high school kids
finding their rhythm for
the very first time.
The song came to an end,
and he tipped her chin up
with one finger, and looked into her eyes,
putting her in a sleepy trance.
He put a finger to his lips,
whispered in a barely audible voice
into the chemistry-laden air,
"Don't think of sheep."
Her serious, "I won't,"
was aborted by the touch
of his lips on hers, softly,
gently, not too demanding,
seemingly saying,
"This is just a kiss I'm offering,
nothing more~relax, baby,"
and she did, sorry
that she'd put on her shoes,
dug out her car keys...
They kissed, seeking knowledge
of each other,
up the stairs,
through the living room,
to the front door,
parting
at the threshold,
and there he stood,
watching as she drove
blending into the
starry night,
as dear lambs
often do.
It is their nature.
Lori Beal
Blame it on him,
that silly scene where the shepherd
fell in love with his sheep.
Listening to Styx, "Don't Let It End,"
he caressed her arms, held her hand,
looked into her eyes, leaned in,
and she started to giggle.
"I can't help it," she squealed.
"I was thinking about sheep!"
Resigned, he sank back in his seat,
massaged his temples, and sighed.
They talked for a while,
sang off key, laughed together,
and as the hour grew later,
dozed intermittently, reaching out
to pat each others hand or smooth
a wayward strand of hair.
He dimmed the lights, rewound the c.d.
to, "Don't Let It End," stood up,
and took her hand, pulling her to her feet.
It was two a.m.
They danced an innocent slow dance
like two junior high school kids
finding their rhythm for
the very first time.
The song came to an end,
and he tipped her chin up
with one finger, and looked into her eyes,
putting her in a sleepy trance.
He put a finger to his lips,
whispered in a barely audible voice
into the chemistry-laden air,
"Don't think of sheep."
Her serious, "I won't,"
was aborted by the touch
of his lips on hers, softly,
gently, not too demanding,
seemingly saying,
"This is just a kiss I'm offering,
nothing more~relax, baby,"
and she did, sorry
that she'd put on her shoes,
dug out her car keys...
They kissed, seeking knowledge
of each other,
up the stairs,
through the living room,
to the front door,
parting
at the threshold,
and there he stood,
watching as she drove
blending into the
starry night,
as dear lambs
often do.
It is their nature.
Lori Beal
Comment On This Poem ---
Sheepish
Sheepish
