Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

It was still there
the old outhouse
on the edge
of the woods,

he saw, making
his way around it,
his eyes scanning
each part, each

memory soaked
into the wood
grown old.
He opened the door

and peered in.
The smell faded
through lack of use.
Cobwebs still hung there,

spiders raced
across the ground.
No other sound.
Memories stirred.

He and she had sex
here once; door locked
against the world,
against the nosey neighbours,

her parents, the night wind
and bright moon’s glow.
He can smell her scent still,
that smell she had,

fresh apples and hay.
He walked about
the small space,
his footsteps moved

over where once they lay.
Not planned, out of the passion
of that meeting, kissing
and holding, young flesh

stirred and the need
to be satisfied.
He leaned down
and put his fingers

across the ground,
rubbed where once
her buttocks rested,
her legs wide, her eyes

in shade of the semi dark,
her body captured
his juices in the passion’s tide.
Long since gone

she to some other place
that one night of sex
ingrained in his mind
and on the ground

and outhouse walls of wood.
He’d love to see her
here again and fuck her
once more if he could.

Lotsa memories on the edge......

Thank you, Wireman.

I like this. Your poetry is always so simple and so rich.

Thank you, Irish.