The Breeze
by Richard Dixon



this afternoon is perfect – early fall, sunny, cloudless
mid 50s to low 70s – the breeze wafting, gentle with
no gusts, an occasional kick to remind me it’s still there

seductive effect, reminds me of a similar breeze, three
decades ago on the boardwalk in Venice – Patrick and I
had climbed the bleachers to watch a paddleball match

He started a conversation with you, I kept turning my head
to listen and noticed more of you; cutoff jeans that housed
tanned, athletic-looking legs; short, swept-back blond hair

framed a face devoid of makeup; high, proud cheekbones
elegant, aquiline nose, full-bodied lips and eyes same blue
as the ocean beyond

The perfect breeze kicked up slightly, caused me to notice
your moving, gauzy white shirt and all else there, see-through
and unbuttoned 3 or 4 buttons down, the placket flapping

realized I must be a-stare, but not caring, your breasts
clearly coming into view, medium with a wonderful shape
the next few seconds the breeze kicked up, opened your shirt

and exposed your right breast to full effect, bare and beautiful
as I saw it grow hard and erect The rush of blood roared
through me as the breeze opened, then closed your shirt

unable to help myself, trying not to look yet powerless
your right nipple still stark and firm and definite
backed up the belief it was the right thing to do, and you

the entire time seeming not to notice, keeping up a low-key
conversation with Patrick, but now with an afterglow
on your face, me in full gratitude to the elements






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