Had I been a predator she would have been mine for the feasting.
Early on I would have instilled a primal fear in her.
Size, voice, insistence, strength and rough handling
intimidating and dominating her,
driving her ever inward, downward, and finally homeward.
There, or on the way in the car, whole or half-naked,
I would have slathered with her desire,
pleasuring myself with her for, oh, an hour or more.
And so she would have been mine.
And I could have at last lived up to my billing.
But I am not a predator.
I am a poet writing poetry to her memory.