When we flirt, we flirt with danger
and we must take great care that
that which simmers in our loins does not
explode in our faces.
It’s adrenalin/nitro,
an unstable mix.
Tip the balance and everybody gets hurt.
I know I’m vulnerable, ripe for the plucking,
a bird on the wire
trilling for the thrilling,
but we’d better figure out
whose goose we’re killing.
I don’t blame the wine, I blame myself.
Too easy to run my hands over the silk of you,
to want to taste the milk of you,
to plunder your lips while your husband sleeps
one step closer to heaven.
Like a cat-burglar,
I’ve breached the foyer
of this plush inner-city apartment building.
Working clandestine hours, stealthy, always gloved,
riding the high of the risk of discovery.
But taking the greater risk is the homeowner
uninsured against heartache.
