Clubbing

Photo by Maor Attias on Pexels.com

Clubbing

Last night you drew a map on my hand,
in the middle of the dance floor as we sipped luxury wine.
Outside it was gusty and rainy,
unusual for this time of year,
getting everything wet,
really wet
wet and waiting for the bees.
A tree house, a wailing railroad bridge,
a pond to skip stones across,
an accumulation of sacred, secret places
that talked to me when there was
no Jack, no rum, no sexy,
just honest places. Houses with pianos
in them and porch lights that stay on
until everybody is safe and inside.
You came up to me wild hair from dancing away the night
looking like a girl who had been bucked off her palomino.
Both of us dripping wet with rhythm and
lust like soft sea sponges.
When a mouth hungers, the throat dries.
You invite me outside.
Summer’s liquid slides down my back.
You run your hands down my body.
Your cigarette is passed
as you rub your fingers up and down my body
gyrating
I stand motionless, but our cuddled lungs pant.
The sacred breath of inhaling something that smells new.
You make me feel like a young kid
sitting in the back of my truck overlooking my youth.
You could be the one that takes
down the for sale sign in my eyes
or you you could be a pulled over cab,
the lights of the house going off one by one
with each piece of clothes.
Between lit windows and the heaving dark,
I feel the azaleas in your breast.
Last call and my tongue is inside your mouth.
You put an ice cube down my back.
I squirm and pull you in closer to my chilled body.
Outside we dance with the rhythm of the trades and the trees.
Friends file out of the club and slyly smile.
There was a time when I would have been
skittish and uncomfortable
with such a skilled knife,
but you chop through that fear.
Maybe it was the dancing,
the ashtray, my apartment keys
I dangled overhead
as you brushed the side of your face
up against my sweaty shirt,
unhurried and deliberate,
beach grass and gulls watch
as the night answers its own restless questions.

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