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By Linda Sue Grimes
"I envy Seas, whereon He rides --"
I envy morning that breaks
over his broad breast.
I envy noon that calls him to lunch.
I envy evening that sees
his eyes grow tired from study,
and night-- I envy her arms, her bed linen
enfolding his warm limbs
while he sleeps.
I envy his car: rear view mirror
catching his glances,
gear-shift knob responding
to his warm hand, clutch
knowing the pressure of his foot,
ignition accepting his key.
I envy the route his car takes to school
and the other drivers who might catch
a glimpse of him as he goes.
and I envy the music he listens to,
and I envy the clothes that rub
against his ample body,
and I envy all of his professors
who see his bright face
lighting up out there among
the other students.
I envy his coffee cup, his fork,
and spoon, and the table under
which his legs rest while he dines.
I envy the waitress with whom he flirts,
marking her breasts, wondering
how they would feel in his hands
and on his naked chest, and how she
would sound moving under him.
© Copyright 1997, 2007, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 07/23/2000