Poems ✍️
Poems ✍️
20.08.2026
18
A Thrum
As all those parts made up a sum
to be admired or ignored
he heard a faint soprano hum
low instincts told him he had scored.
He wrote a poem, fourteen lines,
covertly sprinkling into it
the fragrance of erotic wines,
the chalice of Teutonic wit.
She spoke, with honesty and poise
a woman holding her own drum
her eyes a shade of soft turquoise
deep in her womb a steady thrum.
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