He wondered between
which crochet, which
minim, in the
exposition of which
prelude, which fugue,
the
gawky girl had become
a woman;
was there a moment,
buried in Bach, when
she had changed
clothes from
baggy, frumpy sweats
to the
artfully-torn jeans
showing
summer-tanned thigh;
was he so
submerged in Schubert
he somehow missed the
burgeoning of her
breasts, the tightness of her
T-shirt, how deep was
her valley?
so mired in Mendelssohn
that he mistook those
shy, sly, sideways
glances that asked
“Are you looking?” “Am
I hot?” “Do you
want me?”, which he
now knew he did.
Waiting for her,
playing some jazz,
thinking whether he
would be
damned, hounded,
traduced, the words of a
medieval monk rang in
his brain,
“…if God do not
forgive it,
I would".
