Rara Avis

Just


     the swirl of her ponytail, perfectly
                             positioned, painstakingly
centered


 careless strands cascading just so
     teasing the
back of her neck
  and his mind.

He could
taste her
or imagined he could.  Craved
        her notice.  Her figure, poised attentive, undimmed, juxtaposed with the relative blur of all others in the room

and the fidgety
shuffling of peers,
the drone of the
schoolmaster lecturing on dimensions, insignificant hum
but her soft
shifting
he heard,
 his heartbeat all that vied for attention, audible witness of his lust, and
 her composition all he'd managed to memorize
                     thus far this year, her nimble
                                                            limbs
at play at gym,
her regal movement through
  the hallways.


                   So, powerless, when at last such substance
                     of rapture stood
before him, anticipation palpable.  She cocked
           her
           head, not unkindly.  He cleared his throat,
                        too aware of sticky palms,
 willed
                                 words
 that would not come.

The Mag

The Sunday Whirl