Monday, 23 September 2013

"....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".