The Bait Disappointment

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

His arms and hands are made of styrofoam.

His fingers have the feel of vinyl love.

His touch winks warning as a crime of chrome,

His smile metallic like a bully’s shove.

The difficulty isn’t in his hair —

Its curlings as in pinions of the wing

Of Lucifer before he fell through air

Of heaven — but his kiss is like a sting

That tastes of honey from the Promised Land.

His lips are far too soft for cruelty

When spit of tongue probes in.  More like a brand

Of lust it brawls, a masculine decree.

  If hair he grasps is rich enough, it might

    Distract from gasp in swooning streetlamp night.