Wordle #162



Underneath your laughter

A pigeon squeaks.

Wings flutter furiously,

A pregnant meeting stuck

To its leathery ankle.

It rolls through your smile

Barely breaking free

Your dozing mandible.

What does it all mean?

I follow your eyes

To her north-pointing breasts

Surveying her physics

Her incomprehensible beauty.

That face which needs

No introduction and those sweet

Pollinating lips which mate

Eagerly with yours;

A welcome deeper than warranted.

I treat her with careful hands

And shades of awe-inspiring envy.

My heart unwilling to report

To its more cumbersome brain.

Whatever I feel, whatever I lack

I carry with me, bracketed inside

A withering pump. Silently,

Stewing in my contagion and hers.