I’ve been given ten minutes, so
spastically spiffy, I write in a jiffy
whatever mad jangle jumps into my mind.
I don’t have leisure to pause for thought
or practice the grammar my teacher taught,
As he walked between duos of deadening uniforms,
I perused the circle of his belt, my sight slipping lower,
bouncing in virgin shame over the masculine swell, down,
down to his shoes, up to his knees, up, jumping again dangerous
searching north of his waist for a place where love was safe,
my eyes embracing fingers, wrists, shoulders, chest,
coming to rest on his face
whenever he glanced away.
but write down whatever words I can find.
A breeze relieves the waving heat,
whisking the leaves of the elegant trees
into shimmering silver and green bouquets.
I picture the forest that closed
the holes that split long after procreation,
and vestiges of evil deflate and are blown away.
The clock face submits a message of haste,
but I can’t concentrate while the seconds tick this way.
The woodland recedes, stealing my rhyme.
I panic and grab, but the magic escapes
and I’ve run
Written for June Writing Prompts: Spastically spiffy
©Jane Paterson Basil