Poetry

The light from the barn makes a perfect isosceles triangle; A sign that the doorway is unquestionably open and somebody is soon to return.   I await as I sit on the primrose colored boards, And count the planes gliding by the amethyst colored sky.   My thoughts deflect reason, As I embrace conformity. My body rejects the feeling of inferiority, While showering itself with a bucket of pity.   I hear her mumbles and moans, As well as his grunts and purrs. My attention then catches the protests of the barn, As it shakes and jerks in a rocking motion, annunciating the climax of their encounter.   Later on I heard that she took a ride on his joystick, And I found myself jealous. Of which one of the two?     I still haven't figured it out...