Those pudgy sweet fingers
in the vice grip of celebrity
scribble Bill Bill Billy
incessantly.
The rules are clear:
only My Life will be signed
and only if purchased in-house,
there can be no personal requests;
yet no one is surprised to find
a perfumed librarian
suddenly lifting her blouse,
inviting Bill’s big
John Hancock
across her breasts.
With that famous bitten lip,
the chastened ex-
President masks
the urge for a quick
smear of his felt tip;
mired again at the tangent
of policy analysis and sex,
he cannot accept this gift
of fragrant parchment.
The Secret Service
hustles her away.
Mammorabelia will not be
signed today.
As, with a mixture of arousal and relief,
the former philanderer-in-chief
returns his attention to the throng
of titillated admirers,
would it be so wrong
if deep down, he were to
savor the memory of the lady’s areolae,
floating like golden halos of
innocence and purity
on the Puritanical sea
of his personal purgatory?
(Originally published in The Ledge #29, Summer 2006. © 2006 Michael Schein, all rights reserved.)
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