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The Oarsmen's Luncheon
She longs for the oarsman whose
sweat smells redolent,sweet, musky.
Shoulders bare, biceps bulge,
a white stained shirt moist
dampened by rowing,
Straw hat cocked forward,
bearded chin tilted out.
She is having a concealed affair,
bites into her wine glass
gasping in sips of pleasure.
She tips an ear and nods automatically
to her talkative companion.
Her eyes stroking
the chest of the oarsman
statuesque compared to his
partner who sits backwards
rocking on his chair.
Holding her lips to the naked glass,
his lips taste salty.
The smoke of pipes and the frank
and vulgar innuendos of men
behind her drifts forward
as does her elusive glance.
She cannot catch his eye
nor make him smile.
Draped on the banister enraptured by her
beau in the brown derby another woman
languishes in love.
Only the yapping dog is allowed to
express its true feelings.
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