Her breasts

 

Her Breasts           

The white-haired doddering gentle old man
in the crushing silence of the public library
blinking through spectacles
writes with shaking hands
in a pocket notebook
unaware that he is muttering to himself
Her breasts… her breasts…

Eyes peer over books. Pencils pause
except the old man's. Fingers
mark pages. We await,
expectant, puzzled. He has pulled a dusty volume
from the shelf of his memory
and, still writing, whispers, hissing
Her breasts…

I want to know: was it in moonlight?  
Hurried? Forbidden?
Dear woman, do you know that after half a century
not only your lover but a whole reading room
of men and women are sharing — are in awe of —
your stunning warmth
Her breasts! Her breasts!

……

From my book Random Saints
photo by Monica Volpin