If you fancy
a cheap thrill,
I suggest you
buy erotica read on CD.

The narrators never disappoint.

Listen to it only in your car.
Be sure to take the route
with one too many stoplights—
teeming with all of
the self-righteous pedestrians
who think they always warrant
the right-of-way.

Roll down
all of your windows.
Turn the volume up
to a number that will
allow you to suitably share.
Employ a smirk of
the most contented caliber,
& bank on making
someone’s ******* day.

*('Cause, no matter how you skin it,
we’re all some kind of human.)

My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****.
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.

She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.

She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.

Scrupulous? Undeniably so.

She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.

My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.

I hate leaving home on days like these:
when I can hear your ghost in the kitchen
washing the same dish 6 times because
you won’t be able to sleep with ketchup
staining your second favorite dish in the
cupboard.

You told me that if you were a tree you
would want to be a maple, because in
Autumn they leave red finger prints on
sidewalks like ****** clues left behind
at the scene of the crime.

I hate leaving home on days like these:
when I see your ghost sitting on top of
the cushioned window seat so you can
count the rain droplets running across
the glass outside, one finger tracing a
path or water and one finger twisting
your hair again and again.

I told you that if I was a tree I would be
a willow, my arms reaching down to the
ground you stood on, roots reaching out
for the sidewalks you walked on, trunk
reaching up to the clouds you loved
more than you loved me.

I hate leaving home on days like these:
when I am a willow constantly weeping.

Some days I think I've finally forgotten you
I wake up and realise you're gone
then the irony of that thought makes me hate you.