There are children, making out on my door step
There are children, in skinny jeans and frilly dresses,
Their phablets bulging from their pockets, their peplum blouses askew
There are children, dammit, soiling the sanctity of my welcome mat with foreplay.
Their limbs tangle and then untangle with frantic urgency
Their lips dance on and around each other; wet, noisy
Their embrace is desperate; their clothes flap open, buttons clatter to the floor,
They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss.
His hand cups the swell of her breast, hers rummages inside his jeans
With his left he tips her head back, plunders with a probing tongue;
With hers she wrestles the unyielding clasp of his belt.
‘Stop’, she says, and grips him tighter.
‘Okay’, he nods, his hands breaching the lace bra.
He reaches, finds a breast, squeezes; she gasps, she shudders, she freezes.
There are children- eager to grow up, itching
Itching to kiss it all, to rub, to squeeze, to cup,
To try it all, to do it all- swapping spit in front of me.
Perhaps, if they kiss long enough, the world will stop
Calling them ‘freshers’. Perhaps.