This was no affair,
You were on my palmtop
Like a beautiful book
In a smooth dustcover.

Like a boy, I fell in love,
With secret trepidation
I was browsing through the romance
With an indecent title.

There were threats, there were tears,
All the same, nothing new,
Mostly it was prose,
Poetry was less common.

Your fits of ardor
And all the other devices
Were stale, like the fairy tales
Read to us when we were children.

I was hoping in secret
That you weren’t dog-eared,
But you, like in a reading room,
Were checked out once too often.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

I can’t wait for the moment
When, well overdue,
I’ll hand to the next in line the book
With an indecent title.