Qualms

At times I find it difficult
To stay upright
On the straight and narrow.

Looking this and that
Way, I see all around
The tempting things:

Still-warm eggs with orange yolks,
Gifts of red wine, ribboned,
Sweet, dark chocolates,
Wrapped and salted.
Hot, urgent kisses
Tasted in the quietest hour,
Seem to call to me
As I walk.
And, most alluring,
Are the words.
They tease,
Beckon,
Trick and deceive.

So I walk, trying
To keep eyes on the next,
Feet bare and pressed flat
On the ground,
And pressed to my side,
Hard and firm, are
My aching hands.

But there are other hands.

There are the hands
That possess these gifts,
And cling to them,
Clutching in worry
In despair.
Of losing them forever.

And I see other hands too.

They reach around my body,
Grasping at those forbiddens,
Warm eggs and tart wine and hot kisses.
They take them
While I watch.
Unlike me,
They have no qualms.
No, they have no qualms.