These women with bodies
like fire hydrants
on burning August days,
gushing all everywhere-
these young gleaming things-
they'll be the death of me.
they grind and wink and tell me things
with their lips so close to mine;
about places they long to see
but don't have the time.
they tell me of their past lives
with lovers lost and memories found,
in places too dusty to be spoken of often.
i swoon on one leg, then the other foot
and my heart crescendos
like a whale's mourning song
and they smile and are gone
leaving me clutching my kick-drum
heart watching the night take her back,
her back to mine.
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