Practice

I haven't practiced this:
a stranger's kiss,
fresh hands finding their way
around buttons to undo me
and loose these folds
held fast by old lady briefs,
forgiven by stretch tencel.
And what would I think of your socks,
black, with tired elastic,
your underwear, your breath?
Or would rapture undo
the unromance
of thinking it through.
I haven't practiced this,
but last night,
we stole away to a corner
of my dream
where wives and husbands
were forgotten history
and stroking hair and gentle gropes
were recent lessons
well practiced.
I wake and moon you
all the morning,
swooning toward afternoon,
when you and I
will sort our children
at the bus stop,
maybe brush an elbow,
and walk back to our homes.

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The inspiration for this poem came from a simple line of found poetry, among other things. (Disclaimer: Poetry can sound real and not be true, just like a story. So don't be thinkin' I've got on old lady underwear beneath these fine J.Jill stretch tencel jeans.)