The Fine Print

Poem By Gary Witt

When she reached on tip-toe
To pull down the hazelnut
From above the La Marzocco,
Her shirt would ride up to reveal
Four lines of poetry in the smallest,
Most minute, illegible font;
A green quatrain tattooed upon
Her yoga-sculpted abdomen,
An inch below and to the side of
Her elegantly protruding hip-bone.

Looking, but trying
Not to look as if he looked,
Curious, shy, but obsessing
Over the content and meaning
Of this pelvic verse,
He imagined it to be
A message solely for a lover’s eyes,
In Sanskrit, Greek, or Aramaic;
Anglo Saxon or Middle English.

He dreamed of placing
His head in her hands,
Reading and savoring
Her indelible, obscure,
Indecipherable text.

Comments about The Fine Print

Simultaneously revealing and restrained; subtle, precise, tasty and verging on the exquisite here and there. It doesn't get much better than this Gary! ! It reads as if the very skilled writer was highly motivated! It's put a pretty broad smile on my face - primarily because it is so bloody good! ! Wow. Further elaboration would be redundant. Regards, jim
I really enjoyed this. An intruiging write that leaves the reader using their own imaginations - not giving us any answers without leaving us feeling that we've been 'cheated' in any way. Yup, good stuff. Hugs Anna xxx
Subtly sensual, interesting without having gone too far, leading the reader's thoughts into daydreaming....about what might be? Very tight, it didn't take many words here to paint the complete vision!
This is saying the same thing as my 'The Elusiveness of Woman' - only much tighter, and the mystery is bone chilling. Nice job, Gary.
Damn Gary this is a hot write.Her shirt would ride up to reveal for lines of poetry. I'm looking for her now!

Rating Card

4,4 out of 5
9 total ratings

Other poems of WITT

A Most Delicious Strawberry

You have your game-face on again;
The don’t-mess-with-me face that comes
With its own combative attitude.
Not pleased with being pleased,

An Agnostic's Prayer

He said I confess that I doubt.
I want the truth and have no desire
To whisper prayerfully into a hole.
So, neither believing nor disbelieving,

March 28, 1941

Whom did you leave behind, Virginia,
When the voices summoned you
Into the river and you strode down,
Stout stones filling the pockets of your overcoat?

Alone At Night

I would pray then at my bedside,
Fingers tightly intertwined,
Eyes straining to close around themselves,
Thoughts thrown with all my strength—

A Poem For His Father

He’d grown quite tired by then, but still he tried
To appease or even please that ghost whose voice
Pursued him, critical of every move—
Pursued him easily, relentlessly;