The Wizard’s Collection

The wizard gave me

the keys to the cabinet

to retrieve a book of spells

and poetic incantations

to further impress

the wide-eyed coeds,

the ones with

smooth, unknowing skin,

gaping, glistening lips,

and snugfuzzy sweaters.

I was his henchman,

a graduate student hunchback

with raging nostrils

who did his bidding,

his dirty work,

all for a letter of reference

and the possibility

of mopping up some of his

nubile, feminine spillover,

so I could secretly

wring out the contents

into a highball glass

to savor

in moments

of lonely solitude.

Why did he trust me?

He knew I’d look

in the cabinet marked

“Unconfirmed Research Evidence.”

Unlocking the cabinet,

I saw dozens

of unlabeled

5-inch plastic

margarine tubs.

I took one,

peered in

and saw

a small thatch

of hair,

brown, curly and dry.

I opened another

which held

a flatter, straggly thicket

of lighter hair.

One after another,

I opened and found

variations on a theme:

honeyblonde

dustyrustyred

cafebrown,

saddleblack,

each one a small handful

of slightly musky,

tight, pubic curls.

I realized

this wasn’t a collection

of data, but rather

his trophy collection.

I closed the cabinet,

retrieved the book

I was sent for,

and returned to the seminar,

where I looked at

the wizard

and his disciples

with completely new eyes.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where even miscreants like me can find a warm and friendly hello.]