Tuesday, I’m feeling glum somewhere while out
in public, larking across Rice Boulevard. Icy
shaved rain cones the wet rag of my head.
Ducking crapping pigeons huddled under eves,
my dripping wet face a blotched Fuji apple
flung into Half Price Books’s Arctic AC
to meet no one but flip leaves of dead trees.
You stand tip-toed toward your belly, legs spread
wide as you kneel down toward a bookcase.
I make you move, slightly, and we are soon
gazing over coffee. Your hand recovers mine.
I squeeze it hard. We smile. You shudder and suggest
we hang at your upstairs loft at the Domain
a few blocks over and around a corner
bending over, spread open the bright pink boat
of yourself, head sideways and down on silk pillows
the room’s ribbed sails of long white curtains flap, pop
open, then stiffen full-bellied in the billowing wind.
copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved