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

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