He strolled across the fields of Harvard Yard,
untouched by any interest in romance,
immersed in thoughts of Søren Kierkegaard
when suddenly he met her sultry glance.
The day was warm. She wore a scarlet tank.
Her sun-tanned cleavage bore a small tattoo.
He swallowed hard, responding to the frank
appraisal in her black-fringed eyes of blue.
She gazed at him, her grin a slash of white.
He smiled right back, and they exchanged their names.
His Diesel jeans were - locally - too tight
as youth and ardor spread in crimson flames.
Some things were more important, it was plain,
than studying an existential Dane.