Ode to DK

DK. A teacher? A lover?
must one be K. Aaron Smith to touch her?
the sky above her, is it a brighter blue?
the carpet beneath her tiny feet a deeper brown
her presence creates a creamier hue.

our words are our food
the lecture hall our shelter
the steps i take to my seat, oh the movement of her hands, what a treat!
notes aside, pencil aside, powerpoint aside
i am the microphone
cold, black, tiny in her hand
i wait on the table, lifeless until DK picks me up
puts her plan into action
all of a sudden, i feel the electricity pulsing through my once lifeless chord

my destination is clear and inevitable
as she places me in her nonexistent cleave
i wonder, is there any place sweeter than this?
i look down at the sparse bosom of the one i am drawn to
i am like a moth lost in a flame
except i am a microphone, lost in the creamy Asian colored flesh of DK
i am no longer the microphone

everything about her causes my tongue to tie
my skin is hot, my face flushed
when she flashes some thigh
i notice her, i see her
she is kneading the air
she is pointing her laser pointer
she is articulating the phonemes of my wildest dreams!

if she only knew, only understood how happy she could be if she let me take her back to wessex
does she see the danelaw in my eyes?

i cannot help but wonder
as she speak of language, comitatus
and plunder
did she mean what she whispered to me during office hours
late that night?
her voice was faint
but i will never forget

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