Musings by The Poet Loriet

Junk in Trunk

I walked in wearing
my tight black
flamenco-dancer pants
with layers of ruffles
swirling my ankles.

I walked in to kiss you,
sat at the bar to drink
an Irish coffee then
walked out with you five
paces behind me.

I knew my pants were
form-fitting tight
and I gave a little
extra wiggle which
you rewarded me by
whistling appreciatively.
"Wowie, baby, you got
junk in trunk!"

One person's junk is
another man's treasure.
Love me,
love my junk!



Lori Beal


Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Junk in Trunk

132,810 Poems Read

Sponsors