Poems

by Jim Ellis
(12/28/05)

No Sex On The Bus

No sex on the bus:
I understand the rule.
For kids.

But what about for two young bus drivers
beginning an affair,
in the middle of the day
in a bus parked at the far corner
of the bus yard?

Of course that would never happen.
So I understand the rule.

                

Your Sexuality

Your sexuality is one of my great joys.
But I don't want to own it, that would reduce it.
I love the smell, its wet heat.
I love the clothes that have been peeled from it.
I like to kiss your dried but fragrant blossomings.
The resiny cello of your moan.
The words that are spoken after we join the traffic full speed -
logical, low, driven words that knock me over,
the only point in life so far when flying and falling are indistinguishable,

its loving generosity,
one gift, two, 5, a thousand, just like that,
a million,

I know each look of your face,
each feel of your body
yet each is new

your playing and flirting,
shameless jokes and gross innuendoes;

I love the power of it when all the teasing is transcended,
the powerful thought of your thinking
of the power of the act of entrance,
its symbolism, its history, its clear mystery,
its seizing, its X-ray into the secret of life.

I believe in what your sexuality means to the world,
to our sons,
to a century from now
when I pray there still exists
a sexuality like yours

                

Disappearance

Your lips were in the shape of a journey completed.
Words have too many edges to describe it.
I keep circling back to the roundness
blossoming in you last night -
to your fullness.

I will not forget
the disappearance of my emptiness.

                

No Sex

No sex for (we disagree
how long).
If I beat off to relieve
the pressure I am full
of emptiness
so I don't and am full
of images: your clothes,
your smells, shapes,
your movement.

Awkward in the morning
folding newsletters
at the kitchen table
not a single joke
about the congregation
(we disagree about jokes).

Zipping my jacket
before leaving for work
without warning
your perfect lips
trip me on the stairs.

©2005 by Jim Ellis

                                                                                                                                                                                               

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Jim Elliswrites safety training manuals for a living and lives in Auburn, New York. He loves many poets of many different styles, eras, and cultures. He fears for the world. His work has been published in Pig Iron, Thorny Locust, Vs., Zillah, Lake Effect, Tryst, Red Owl, Comstock Review, Kaleidoscope Review, Lilliput Review, Dream Fantasy, Olive Trees, Snakeskin, VLQ, Flesh From Ashes, Slow Trains, and Unlikely Stories.