A LONG, LONG WAY TO DESIRE

It´s Saturday in the evening,
With the colleages I dine,
Bewitchered by the voices,
Sweet and distant female souls.

Laying himself, stretching´n arm,
Along the back side of the settee,
Laying herself, and her neck
Nearly brushes his laid arm.

She doesn´t realize
He doesn´t realize
No one does realize
But I do.

Let your head rest
Upon my warm chest,
And let my arm clear
Your sorrows and your fear.

No one does realize,
This scenario doesn´t be,
And also I´m not involved,
The whole thing doesn´t matter at the least.

The whole thing does get hidden
In the vast swamps of oblivion,
There it triggers a remembrance
I was young, and she sorrowed.

And it always was another,
Whose her neck received the arm,
Whose the hand harmlessy rested,
In expectance, by her breast.

Was it mine or any other´s
The young girl deserving care,
I was jealous of this hand
To the nipple, stalking so near.

And in this Saturday evening
Being older and also wiser,
I feel just the same jealousy
Of this hand that doesn´t be.

But the jealousy, that matters,
Is a jealousy of myself,
For not having, at an arm´s lenght
Any girl, sorrowed or feared.

For not having, at my heart,
This pain that it alives,
For not having any lady
Nor the guy that can embrace.

ON A POEM BY ROGER WOLFE

WISDOM

2 am,
bicycle
riding lady,

nice legs
just pulsing of
the pedals,

while breeze
rais´ the dress,
and reveales

the perfect
miracle
of female moving flesh.

Our eyes
stole a glance
at us,
then she´s gone.

Through facts like this
you realize
how few you know
about nothing.

(Photograpy by Pedro Martínez Alhambra)