Note From the Canadian Girl Next Door
Please tell me, dearest Donald,
is it your aim to play a whipping game
of trade upon my snowy back, volley my borders
with your bombastic billy-club
rhetoric? How I feel you, your yearn to lick
my sensual cedar. Picture my soft pines
wrapped round your fingers. Come closer,
Donald. Peep in my window – I lie languid in wait.
Come, whisper fluid sweet yearning,
waken me with your electric needs.
See if my fractured clefts open
to your deft fondling under my skirt.
Do not just flirt with me, Donald,
shift your squinted glance, those coy
pursed lips. Do not forget I know you,
watched you play from over the fence
at being a man of machination,
a golden lidded Olympian –
industrious, weighty. But that paunch
shows indulgence of the gifts of my grains,
my red meat has made you
pot-bellied. Do you think I am mere exercise,
a simpleton unrefined, easily bullied
before you attempt conquest
of the big girls, the sophisticate?
Yet here I am, watching, waiting for you.
Yes, I may bluster, my dear Donald,
but you know I cannot leave you now,
no matter how your face frowns,
your hands flap me away.
I can’t forget my pinky-swears
with the boys next door –
We’ve grown into one another;
I’ve no choice but to stay.