"....I Would"

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".