WET

I wrote a poem praising rain
and the lack of umbrellas
when that blushing maiden
with long, dripping hair
and narcotic curves
stood nearly naked
in a clinging white dress
asking me to walk her home
at the beginning of
a hot summer night
I will never forget.

"Poetry is gay!" he said to me.
Then he turned back to watch
those sweaty, grunting muscle men
wrestle around with other sweaty men
half naked on the floor.