Cursive

I really do do this.

I write all my dirty poems in cursive. 

It’s a little secret I like to share with myself.

Like the lace panties I wear under boardroom attire--

if they knew, it’d knock their pants off.

By the drool in their eye, I can tell.

It’s the script I think.

It confounds the eye.

It’s her way to speak and still keep her surprise.

Because a woman’s body is curled script on fine paper.

It folds in all the right places and dimples where dimples should be.

And you can try to read her.

And you can puzzle out certain things.

But forget all knowing always.

 It’s a thing I keep to myself.

My cursive is sloppy and sexy--

and sunshine,

you don’t have a clue.