Comfort Zone

Poem By Herbert Nehrlich

When others stand too close to me,
and box me in, invade my space,
I've always thought one must be free
of pests that like to take one's place
and spread their wings like pesky flies.
So when I stop to shoot the breeze,
exaggerate, tell little lies,
some of these folks will try to seize
an opportunity of sorts
to hover close like an oppression.
And now and then someone resorts
to paw me, skipping all discretion....

I hate it mostly when it's hot
or an a steamy summer day,
the best deodorants cannot
make armpit odour go away.

Throughout the years thus I have learned
yo keep as friends the ones who think
the same as I, they will have earned
a lengthy chat, and not a blink
or hasty hold-your-breath retreat.
I need a distance that conveys,
in shops or on a busy street,
to make distinction between gays
and those who'd reach into your purse,
which, as you know, requires eyes
that do record as it occurs,
allowing you to realise....

And when I met her at the Park,
I was so smitten with her features,
that, as we walked into the dark
she leaned on me! One of those creatures.

So many nights we braved the frigid
and icy banks of Father Rhine,
came home, not feeling any digits,
unable to uncork the wine.

And then, one early day in Spring,
when all the snow will meet its maker,
Woodpeckers peck and Robins sing
and Swallows nest down at the Baker,
there was an overwhelming feeling,
when our clock had struck the hour,
as we laid back, stared at the ceiling,
still dripping wet from one shared shower,
we fell asleep with happy faces.

The bed had so much room to spare,
there were no empty, unused spaces
between our bodies, little air
would have been able to diffuse.
And here I was, one craving distance
from other humans, free to choose
a girl who understands resistance
to close encounters of the skin.

I loved the closeness of her heat,
it was confusing to have been
converted in that silken sheet.
We woke at times throughout those nights
and I confess that now and then
we could not even tell when lights
were on (you know us frightened men) ,
which lip was hers and which be mine.
We suffered optical sensations
when touching skin stained by red wine,
there often was no confirmation
of who the owner was and why.

Our bodies were so glued together,
there was the one thing that a guy
seems to wear like a trophy feather,
but even that would sometimes dive
into some underground resort.
The two of us, so much alive,
were tied together by a cord
that took two beings, at each end
then joined the bits to let them kiss.
And that is when the dearest friend
will have to know what closeness is.


Is it, the reader may inquire,
a matter of some pheromones?
It is a question I admire.
but do not like its undertones.

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