August draught broken
by a sly giggling rain
and a stolen kiss–
Indian summer
ain’t too far off now, whispers
of September’s gold–
the kiss was dark and
forbidden in some empty
trembling office–
she said she likes my
carnal sensibilities
and vulgar haikus–
i told her i’m a
Beat poet that missed the bus
and ended up here–
she didn’t know what
Beat poets were, so i said
that i would show her.
“what are you doing
after this?” (she knew when she
woke up this morning.)
we were well-behaved
until it was time to go.
we went to my house.
she liked the decor
and I put on an album,
chose Marcy Playground.
“hangin’ round downtown
by myself and i’ve had so
much time”– that i have–
“to sit and think ’bout
myself and there she was like
double cherry pie–“
oh?– “yep, there she was,
like disco superfly– i
smell sex and candy–“
we wasted no time–
she was built like a swimmer–
i test the waters–
it made me sad to
observe that she wasn’t used
to after-treatment–
she prepared to leave,
i said “where are you goin’,
hun?” she stopped, surprised.
“how bout a nice bath?”
“bath?” “yeah, you know, like, bubbles.
music. a candle.”
she smiled. “do- do you
want to take a bath with me?”
i asked, didn’t i?
“i’m going to take
one either way, hun, but you’re
welcome to join me.”
she did. sandalwood
scents, some old noir music,
an orange candle.
we talked for a while
and i made her laugh a lot,
warm smoky and nude
“you’re… interesting.”
this makes me self-conscious, so
i just say “thank you.”
comments like these are
strange, and i never know how
to react to them.
my inner scoundrel
loves them, but that guy gets me
in loads of trouble.
my father always
says “if you can’t be good, at
least be good at it.”
but i know that the
devil is beautiful.
pretty girls make graves.
she watches me close.
“are you okay?” i don’t know
what that even means.
“yeah, i’m fine darling.”
i smile for her comfort, and
maybe for mine too.
it shouldn’t be so
deep anyway. why do i
magnify comments?
we talk for a while
longer. i ask her about
family and school.
she studies English
and art in Charlottesville. she’ll
be headed back soon.
her father is dead,
but her mother is alive,
and some grandparents.
she likes Bukowski–
she noticed the stack of his
books on my mantle–
and asks me what
i like to write– or, at least,
what i write about.
“i write about youth,
confusion, nature, travel,
religion, fucking.”
this makes her giggle.
“do the other Beat poets
write about that stuff?”
she lifts a dripping
leg and presses her wet toes
to my chest, smiling.
“when they’re not being
good-for-nothing, unemployed,
pretentious drunks, yeah.”
she laughs, having no
idea how serious
i’m being right now.
i reach up and grab
some soap and lather her up
with it, rinse her off.
she beams the whole time.
she washes me afterwards,
returns the favor.
“ready to dry off?”
she nods and i pull the drain,
give her a towel.
we brush our hair and
i take her back to bed for
another visit.
“when you want to come
back let me know” i say as
she dresses after.
“i will. i’ll be in
town for another week, you
know, before i leave.”
“i’ll be around” i
say with a smile and kiss her
lightly on the cheek.
“if nothing else, i’ll
see you when i’m out on break”
she says with a grin.
“yeah, i know” i say,
putting my jeans back on to
walk her to her car.
“you should email that
editor who gave you his
card today,” she says.
“he won’t like me,” i
chuckle. “what makes you say that?”
she inquires, doubtful.
“cuz i’m gonna send
him a sex story about
you made of haikus.”
