Our potholed parking lot would threaten us
nightly as we weaved in from Dickson Street’s
haunts, sauntered in laughing zigzags and cussed
each stumble and scrape, motions indiscreet
as savages attacking our front doors.
Locked inside, wrapping ourselves within each
other’s skin, carpeted living-room floor
metamorphosing to bed, muffled screech
of coming buffered by Dylan’s cool plea
for his lady to lay, we’d lie at last
silent, save for soft-sigh breathing, gently
stroke each other’s groin, bodies sensing vast
night’s blessing. Our smiling ironic lips
barely echoed the record needle’s lisp.
Roger Armbrust
September 28, 2010
