Eye of the Beholder

Just sometimes I feel that way:

one mundane object

an unrelated comment

some random gesture:

All I want to do is bed you.

Yes, the echo of your sighs

gone from my ear too many days now,

of course, that arouses me, too.

In the solitude of my bed

As I drive my car on errands

Sauntering among sidewalk crowds

smelling vaguely of you.

It is something like Billy Collins’ eye

beholding a painting’s racy charge

undetectable to even the most randy of

the general populace.

There are surprising prompts out of nowhere:

not just the shape, but the distant heat, of the chandelier torch

a child’s exuberant peddling full speed in the new spring air

the hard concrete corner on the Mezzanine with its luminescent glass floor tiles where quiet hovers, deceptively suggesting seclusion

It’s not all that often, not really that frequently:

just with each exhale and every other inhalation.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston