Sexy to me is a bearskin rug* with nothing on. Waiting. A wine glass, waiting expectantly for the pour, not knowing white or red just knowing you - and knowing it will be exquisite, with your lips to follow. A plate, clean, white, gleam - awaiting: something soft, warm. Salty, savory; something to be scooped out in dollops, and scooped up with toasted crusts. A door. Closed; waiting. A whole room, the whole house - darkened.
The misty hiss of tires outside, rained-upon asphalt rolling out a carpet for a car rolling up, a carpet of wet black, shot across all over with electric stars, a car rolling up with us inside. A slam of car doors and a laughter of running feet, with elbowing for inside position, as -
- a key slid in, and thunk/click. And open, and tumbled rush, and:
"Base!"
Safe, and home, and dry.
3 comments:
awesome poem!
Hm.
I guess I better put it on my poem blog!
Wait a second - it's already on there! WHAT THE - - !?
I guess I pasted it in here as a draft, then instead of finalizing it, I took it over to my poetry blog as a poem. Then I discovered it months later in 'drafts', said "Hey, why didn't I publish that!"
Mystery solved. I think.
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