The Thing About Sex by Dale Champlin

-after “Writing” by Charles Bukowski

Wait until waiting hurts, 
wait some more,
wait until it hurts like hell, 
until your ears ring and you can’t think,
until you go blind in both eyes,
until you want what you want more than anything.
until you can’t think of anything else
because, yes, it is everything.
All you can picture is his hand on your rump
his fingers in your mouth,
his lip on your tongue,
his face in your hands, 
your teeth on his ear.
Imagine the way your feet will tingle 
how you will grasp his knees with yours.
His slow breath will blow your mind
and you won’t be able to think another thought.
But wait until your fancy is tickled,
your fire sparked, your socks rocked,
when you get in gear,
and your boat starts to float,
your fuse is lit 
your toes are curled
if it turns you on
no matter what.
Sitting, lying, or standing—
on a high wire, a cliff edge,
a remote float,
in a bower or on top of a tower,
topple into it
no matter what,
when or where
hop to it
and do it. 

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