Wednesdays are for poets

Conception

"Leaving so soon love," I ask as I watch his muscles flex, seeing the graceful dance of youth, as he

gazes on me—fully in bloom. His finger slides down my neck, down to the hollow between my breasts.

"Yes," he answers. "I can't lie here all day making mad passionate love. I have other poets, you

know." He smiles, lingers, and touches my rounded …