ON MISS SCHLIPNAR.

A MAN AND THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Max wondered if Miss
Schlipnar ever wore a bra,
Because while passing her

 

On the stairs on his way to
The library with long over
Due books, he noticed her

 

Breasts kind of hung loose
Like horses set free from
The noose; not that he was

 

Looking on purpose, he had
Other matters on mind: the
Book on Kafka was a blind,

 

A cracker, but the breasts were
There beneath her top, the
Printed pink top with the

 

Hendrix face, (lucky guy)
Staring back at him. Miss
Schlipnar always smiled on

 

Seeing Max, gave the eye,
The kind of look that seemed
To say, study my butt when you

 

Pass me by, kind of gaze, and Max
Did, took it all in, the butt, the
Breasts, the cutie smile, the hair

 

Flowing in the afternoon wind,
And so into his apartment, closing
The door, taking his vision of

 

Miss Schlipnar like his road
To Damascus, putting on his
Mahler’s Ninth, lighting up

 

A small cigar, imagining her
Beside him, his token dream,
His afternoon treat, his glass

 

Of beer, supping, sipping and
Thinking, I love you my dear.

Reviews

[just rose.]

Ok here we are with this guy again! And I can't decide if he's creepy or misunderstood or latent or what, but I KNOW him, and I have BEEN Miss Schlipnar! The poem, of course, especially the ending, is incredibly well done, technically perfect.