Happy Sunday My Beauties!
In my house Sundays are for lazy naps, canoodling on the couch, and reading. It’s a day that is perfect for poetry. Enjoy this erotic musing to spice up your Sunday canoodle.
Be well and be wonderful.
Heading North on Sheridan Road
Angeline insisted on driving me home.
We rattled through the gunmetal dawn
lulled by a monotonous intersection of sound,
tires splashing through the freezing rain and
the side-to-side swipe of the wiper blades.
We had spent the night in her apartment.
A scrubby walk-up on the west side,
far from the shore of Lake Michigan,
where thousands of alewives
had heaved themselves onto the beaches
creating a mosaic of silver flesh, sand, and rock.
I chain smoked Marlboro Reds
with the window cracked –
memories swept in on the back of exhaust fumes
and the steel snap of early March
Plastic milk buckets
overflowing with smelt.
My father’s hands
iced raw & bloody
I huffed, annoyed that the remembrance
was not the one I wanted to savor.
I craved the El’s pitch and roll
and the freedom to watch Chicago’s
graffiti-tagged skin slip past,
Hell Bound Truckers Kick Ass
as I rocked home on the third rail,
hoarding the flavor of the night before
Angeline’s plump fingers
pressed to my lips
salted slick with my warmth.
Her whisper was reverent
as I licked my wetness from her fingers –
this is you.