A Roll in the Hay

"Naive at best."

"Childish at worst."

"Or maybe just plain stupid."

It mattered little who said the words.

They stung, and his head droop-ed.

He'd pointed out the foolishness of rolling in the hay.

"The bales are squared and hard.

They're stiff, they scratch.

There's nothing soft about them."

"That's not the kind of 'roll,' nitwit, lovemaking is the thing."

His face turned pink. He felt quite small. His ears began to ring.

A decade since that embarrassment, he pondered and wished

for a ripe, fruitful time to speak and unburden his desire.

He harbored a love for a friend, but never dared utter that

His love had crossed the Platonic River, for fear of shame-filled rejection.

So, for two years, he contented himself with expressing mere affection.

Yet, today, here they were, in an old-fashioned hay mow.

No square bales or round ones either, just loose straw lain invitingly.

And so he said to his dear friend, "Let us go for a roll in the hay."

To his surprise, his friend agreed, "I know what that means, by the way."