They are little, red waxed candy dots
on this mound of goose-spotted skin,
and I like them in
their heightened, altered state:
red-waxed, yet purple when annoyed
or haphazardly overjoyed.
These are round like my outdoor persimmon,
equally unexplored by myself in daily regimen.
They are about to sag without the nag
of restriction from the lady form jurisdiction,
the black-lace fare.
Cold, Tuscan red nips are the delicate bits,
just spotting them makes me forget my station.
I want him to touch, taste and hold them.