TOUCHING A TIT

was my goal,
my only goal,
for many many years.

Call me Ishmael
if you like,
or precocious,
but from the 5th grade
through most of high school,
that was way more important
than geometry unless
you consider that of innocence
& desire which I knew nothing about
but was drawn to constantly.
And it was not like I had steps. No.
Getting there was enough.
Under the bra was like discovering
a cure to adolescence; thinking
about the dark triangle of motives
was, well, unthinkable.

The goal
is still the same,
they still possess magic
& mystery;
only the tits
are attached
to different
torsos.

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