Lizard to my left,
startles me,
lapping on the deck,
such a small now still,
lizard to my left.
She looks at me.
No. He looks at me.
Four push-ups—thrust
to the thrust
to the thrust
to the thrust.
He eyes me,
fans a pink neck,
a lady loving,
dewlap. Dude sack.
I blush, so eye to eye,
but he eyes not me,
slither slither thrusting she.
The lizard to my left's
lover's to my right:
I see, I see,
she's pink on the flower,
he's pink on the tree.
I'm cheering in my mind,
dewlap, dewlap, dewlap.
She sees him not,
I silently scream,
lizard on my left,
look what you've got,
make love,
make love,
thrust, thrust, and begot.
I can't help but motion,
pantomiming love.
But "No," I shriek!
He's lapped to the south;
she's lapping to the north;
they've missed each other lapping,
each lapping back and forth.
A tear, a cry,
the rain is near,
but I don't go inside.
My phone. I fear. A woman.
Oh dear, a lizard to my left.
A.H., how I hide.
A.H., how they cheer.
