The servant girl
encounters a party shoe
under the bed.
It lies on its side.
She tips it up with her bare toe.
She turns it around
Orienting the fancy strap to her bare heel.
She raises her foot.
Her toe points tentatively,
but stops in mid-air.
Her hand returns automatically to the sheets
to relieve them of their passion.
Somewhere in the house,
a door slams in the wind.
We met at a corner
Too fast to stop,
We'd never met before or since.
I was raising my leg in walking
As she was striding forward
Our legs engaged until they had to stop,
In a brief but intimate encounter.
I felt the heat of her exhale,
the brush of her breast
upon my chest,
the push of her hip
upon my innocent hand.
It was instant, but tender.
We were all but lovers
in a passing second.
The disengagement was just as quick.
Her heat lingered on my thigh,
her breath filled me with sensations.
The memory of her body
remained like an impression in hot clay.
No wonder this is frequently mistaken for love.