THE GIRL

has lived on my block
as long as I have--over
forty years. I watched her
grow into
a woman
creased
around the edges--
not necessarily
a bad thing.
At first
I was drawn
to her stately
gait; she moved
much like a Lipizzaner;
she had a black-haired mane
that flouted and a knowing
irreverence that hinted
and announced. I would not
have been surprised
if trumpeters marched
in front of or behind
her, yet
she was alone
in all her comings
& goings.

I saw her today
as I sat & smoked
& thought about death
in the most kindly of ways:
How it's been good
to keep itself close
but not too close; how
at one time it screamed
& now just hums
a familiar tune.
She pranced
down the block
toward me, her legs
moving like well-timed
Weber carburetors
and bounced
on the balls
of her feet.

I lowered
my sunglasses
and nodded
to her.
She did the same.
How long,
I asked,
have you lived here?
Almost forty-two years,
she answered, slowing
to a stop.
Me, too,
I said.
She smiled. I know,
she said.
I smiled.
March '74.
You're older,
she teased,--May '74.
Norman, I said.
Alice, she replied.

Two lovers,
plotting.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

TITS GALORE

They're proud,
they're pointy,
they're poised;
they bounce, they bump,
they undulate
like the air
on hot Georgia asphalt
on a long stretch of highway
in the dog days of August.
They flirt & tease,
they conjure
the boyhood spirits
of men.
They're in spandex,
latex, unisexed,
harnessed, haltered,
or loose
defying the whims
of gravity
& air pockets.

Some tits,
you couldn't find
with a compass,
while others
are a dairy factory.
All though
are lovely.
Lovely with the promise
of warm sweet syrup
spreading warmth
inside your belly.
Enough
to allow you
to close your eyes
and drift,
just drift.

And to think:
it's only June.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014