Gypsies by Kenyon Adams

Your hand on my leg feels like a sack of grain. 

I'm full of skillet fixins,

lukewarm coffee

and the orange juice

I should have avoided.

It always makes me anxious. 

Their voices quivered

over breakfast

and sang

over dinner last night.  

A shakespearean profusion

of Island tales

and dining room gossip. Touching. 

But I do not want

to be touched

without greed,

without desire.

Your hand on my leg feels like

A sleeping child.

Weighty and adhesive. 

It's for you.

It's something you need.

So I oblige it. 

I could've broken my wrist

jumping over the balcony
like that,

In slow motion. 

In that moment, I too was old and forgetful.

I'm sweating a little in my jeans underneath the place

your hand is resting,

on my leg. 

If only you could need me a little less than I fear you do.

If only we could be like two gypsies wanting only a companion

for a journey without an end. 

Kenyon Adams ©  2011