To my porch

 Maybe she would just tiptoe into my life,

as if it were some sort of sin.

Quietly making her way onto my porch.

I'd be sitting there in a recliner.
She'd see me and come sit on my lap.
She'd let me hear her worries
in that soft voice of hers.

She would finally work up the courage to cross the lawn.
She has an inkling of what I have in mind.

Will I squeeze her?
Most probably.

Will I want to take her in for finer tuning?
No car puns or metaphors, but yes.

And work up that romantic adrenaline
the way one does before a bungee jump,
feeling it course through them.

I catch her glance from the other side of the road.
She'll cross soon,
on those bouncy cycling legs.

"But she's so timid," you'd ask.

Yes, she is,
but she knows she's been chosen.

And love is something I can afford.

Standing on the curb,
tipping her foot forward and backward,
I can see her calf flex in the streetlight.

Soon she'll walk over to the front steps.
I'll usher her over.
It won't be my charm.
She knows where it's at.
I won't pretend.

And she'll say those words:

"I've been thinking about you."

I'll tell her to sit on my lap
and share the evening with me.

Then she and I will make love
until it feels strange to separate.

But we will separate,
and she may ignore me afterward.

Yet I will know of her,
and she of me.

And one of those warm winter evenings
will find her restless once again.

She will find me on the porch,
in the recliner.

My lap will be warm.
She'll be drawn in.