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Poetry By: dadio


Submitted:Apr 22, 2010    Reads: 78    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   

Max wondered if Miss
Schlipnar ever wore a bra,
Because while passing her

On the stairs on his way to
The library with long over
Due books, he noticed her

Breasts kind of hung loose
Like horses set free from
The noose; not that he was

Looking on purpose, he had
Other matters on mind: the
Book on Kafka was a blind,

A cracker, but the breasts were
There beneath her top, the
Printed pink top with the

Hendrix face, (lucky guy)
Staring back at him. Miss
Schlipnar always smiled on

Seeing Max, gave the eye,
The kind of look that seemed
To say, study my butt when you

Pass me by, kind of gaze, and Max
Did, took it all in, the butt, the
Breasts, the cutie smile, the hair

Flowing in the afternoon wind,
And so into his apartment, closing
The door, taking his vision of

Miss Schlipnar like his road
To Damascus, putting on his
Mahler's Ninth, lighting up

A small cigar, imagining her
Beside him, his token dream,
His afternoon treat, his glass

Of beer, supping, sipping and
Thinking, I love you my dear.


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