Gypsies by Kenyon Adams

                                      Gypsies by Apryl Skies © 2010

Your hand on my leg feels like a sack of grain.
I'm full of skillet fixins,
lukewarm coffee
and the orange juice
I should have avoided.
It always makes me anxious.
Their voices quivered
over breakfast
and sang
over dinner last night.
A shakespearean profusion
of Island tales
and dining room gossip. Touching.
But I do not want
to be touched
without greed,
without desire.
Your hand on my leg feels like
A sleeping child.
Weighty and adhesive.
It's for you.
It's something you need.
So I oblige it.
I could've broken my wrist
jumping over the balcony
like that,
In slow motion.
In that moment, I too was old and forgetful.
I'm sweating a little in my jeans underneath the place
your hand is resting,
on my leg.
If only you could need me a little less than I fear you do.
If only we could be like two gypsies wanting only a companion
for a journey without an end.


Kenyon Adams ©  2011