Howard Firkin
Cross little faces singing their complaint:
they know your fingers but they’re kept away
from other skin. They hide that skin for you
and you accept their service but don’t offer
their reward: your body. You just flirt
with them, caress their smooth round bodies, poke
them through the button holes and then forget
them, peel your blouse off, drop it to the floor
and welcome someone else to kiss your breasts.
Discarded faces, knowing they will have
to serve again when you pick up your shirt
and toss it round your shoulders, push your arms
through sleeves and use your fingers, torture them,
insert them, tug, and make them bear that strain.