I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and is now warming up for New Year; as a little reward for being so good here's a poem I've been mulling over the Christmas period. It's fairly self explanatory to be honest, but here's a little expo' for you anyway: it looks into that wonderful schoolboy habit, which infuriated my mother to the point of frenzy, of ripping off the front pockets from shirts, and also my younger sister nearing 16 and thus coming into the age of sexual discovery (and how I find this very strange and worrying [here is another source for my mulling]). Anyways, enjoy.
Distractions
Remember when the boys discovered
that tearing off the pockets of cloth
from soft white shirts could briefly serve
to replace the further roaming needs
that stretched and tensed from knuckle to nail
before itching back to the wrist? Like thoughts
or feathers they'd fall and drift slipping
from palm to grit under tugs of laughter
and waving threads sadly reaching
back for the suddenly bare breast.
Stitched in the doorway I notice your white
and slender shirt its smooth cascade
exposed and empty serving as no
distraction leaving you; easy and open.