Dinner at eight

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Dinner at Eight

Sitting opposite I gaze
into your never ending eyes of blue.
Your black dress hung so
beautifully round your neck.
We chat about the weather and
how we must go out more.

Your long limbs beckon me
under the table and in my
mind I’ve left the room
and I’m upstairs turning the
door handle and entering the
hotel room.

In the intoxication of the moment I’m
trying to focus on your mother’s
new garden chair. But all the
time I’m thinking of soft
yielding thighs and trains
slinking through Swiss tunnels.

By Tim Jones 12-10-11

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