Friday, August 31, 2012

Jim's Mom

I rode my bike to Jim’s house
as usual, to play AllStar Baseball
on hot summer mornings,
rang his door bell twice
and waited.

But this time,
the window sheers parted slightly
and Jim’s mom opened the door
wearing only a silken half-slip
and brassiere.

The shell of the wall phone
pressed against her ear
and long blond hair,
wet from bathing.
She said Jim wasn’t home,

and I was embarrassed
by her large
green eyes
that flashed no hint
of awkwardness,

by her body,
like one of those models
in the lady’s lingerie section
of a mail-order catalogue,
that stirred untimely yearnings.

Perhaps it was my stuttering
or her understanding
of a young boy’s gawking
that made her smile sweetly
then laugh.

Even so, my body flushed
down to my toes.
And I ran home,
by the moment.

“Jim's Mom” was originally published in Ariel.

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