Another Sunday evening,
I’m not yet ready
for bed.
I sit down in a dull brown chair
from my parents’ home,
in the corner of this
small living room.
A caramel sundae dessert,
warm sauce in a bronze puddle
melts three scoops of ice cream.
Afterglow lingers sticky and sweet
on my tongue and my lips
as I think wistfully
of you.
I’m alone in my place,
somewhat content,
when the woman next door
for the first time in years
starts a slow moving moan
then rhythmically erupts
in a juicy wet she-devil roar.
An involuntary voyeur,
I lick sugared lips
and quietly cheer
(in spite of some envy)
‘yes, yes hooray’,
I’m happy for her!
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