Imprudence

You are,
All the Wednesdays in June
(And the Thursdays that follow).

You are, we are,
Juliet and Lancelot;
Not quite right,
But damned if we were wrong.

And, Goodness (goodness!) how the grass felt,
Wet against your back and mine.
Then and there;
Why, I almost loved you!

Until the sun reached in and,
Poked its finger down my throat.
And here we are, and here you are;

Disgusting,
But lovely, still.