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By William C. Blome
No need to be comic (not overtly funny, anyway),
but you have to quickly gain some element of trust
(and probably an element that can’t run away
like mercury or disperse all over the countryside
like nitrogen, but definitely a specific element).
‘Trouble is, you keep whining a frontal encounter
is out of the question with this girl, that it would be
like “asking a November leaf to begrudge the branch
that gave it to the wind.” So here’s my last thought
(and remember, buddy, I’m always on your side,
always on your side): Flit up behind her and softly
file the claim that you’re really hurting. Claim you’re
sure you have blood poisoning, ‘positive something’s
not quite right within. Then dare to have the gonads
to keel over in agony beside her, and when she bends
down to help, take this little Exacto knife I hereby give
you and sever both shoulder straps of her book bag.
As the book bag falls away, carefully make a long
and swift incision down the back of her lovely mohair
(and I know I don’t have to sound a caution here on
how important it will be not to nick her skin or draw
upon her blood). Then toss the Exacto into the gutter,
and firmly fan your fingers out across her flesh: Oh
keep reaching inside and performing the noble service
for which you were born, but, mind, stay semi-jovial
and pleasant throughout. Just remember, fella, I’m
wagering all the tea in Asia she’ll soon be begging
you to scratch her back without a let-up or a stop.