Alison and Eugene

From Alison Hill's diary; for full story see "Take Her," on amazon. This is a steemit.com exclusive poem.

Dorm rooms are not supposed to be this clean,
the bedsheets made in perfect folds,
the desk clutter free and organized, I mean
who's room is this vacuumed, like mom's household
pristine, sterile, about to be obscene.

The walls lack clutter, or childish posters,
the carpet fresh, softly pressing,
even streak free windows invisibly bolster
the extremely well maintained space for undressing.

It was so easy to, unclothed,
spread my toes and flow-through poses:
warrior one, two, three, up dog, down, exposed
body, hips supposed to open up, but you're opposing.

Had your dorm not been this sweet
I would not stretch, I would not lean, or strut
this much, but manicured feet, and floor so neat,
let me give you my perky butt.

Screaming forward on both knees,
face toward windows, voice shouting free,
you plunged into me, the tightest squeeze,
and climaxed on your cashmere: a banshee.