They said your shoulder-length hair should be cut;
that it would look more boyish (far more), short.
But you disdain their somewhat shrill advice,
preferring your own choices nonetheless.
You scorn their prejudices that profess
a newer version of old worldliness.
A crisp, white shirt (a "poet's shirt" so called),
with long sleeves left unbuttoned at the cuffs
(that almost touch your fingertips; not quite);
and faded, baggy jeans (the "painters'" style);
and with them, just for her, new stripey socks
(white, orange, blue; and pastel lavender
around the heels and toes); shoeless: clad thus,
you welcome her into this private place,
the penetrala of this first, rapt, date.
Her eyes never leave yours as she removes
her long coat and her black, suede leather heels
(kicked off, and all distractions left behind).
Cascades of curls (her hair as long as yours!)
profusely fall over her pink tee-shirt,
that she has worn with that blue denim skirt
(provocatively short and sought for long),
and bright red hose---flawless, semi-opaque.
No words are needed more---the flow of kisses,
clasping of hands, and tracing of caresses,
lead (without plan or obstacle to blisses
untold, without removing any clothes).
This time alone, too short (as it must be,
right now) will dwell ever in memory
(both yours and hers) retrieved---its frequency
as both desire, unhurried, casually.