I am your erotic palette;
squeeze my offerings gently,
a breast here, a thigh there,
point my nipples with your tongue,
and moisten my lips with yours.
I am the canvas of your desire;
run one hand down along here so,
the other 'round and under, oh,
push that up, yes, spread this,
and begin your painting there.
But I am not your woman,
nor was I ever your man.
Paint me as you will,
apply chisel, wheel, or brayer,
your image is derivative, of me.
And I,
you simply do not comprehend.
(July 2000)