A Brooklyn Hug

On a congested Brooklyn street
by the no.2 subway line,
at the Flatbush Avenue stop,
you stood dressed in your police officer’s
uniform, hat sitting impeccably on head,
shirt and jacket pressed crisp. Looking
so sexy, I wanted a piece of you.
I walked up to you,
sly look on my face,
lustful glint in my eyes,
exaggerated swing of my hips.
I embraced you on that busy Brooklyn Street
as other eyes looked on
my eyes spoke my desire for you.
Later, in bed, you scolded me,
telling me never to hug you in public
for my safety and for yours.
At that moment, I felt loved.
I fell asleep with my head on your chest,
my heart fat with satisfaction.
I would still hold those feelings
if I had not seen you two weeks later,
standing tall in your uniform,
by the no. 2 train line, a smile radiating
from your face as she leaned into you,
you rubbed her baby bump
in the way only a happy
expectant father would,
not caring who saw you
on that crowded Brooklyn Street.

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