The first night I brought someone new to my bed
we stumbled, limbs lurching—a sweet, sultry mess
skipping together as stones over water,
my floundering fingers disarming her dress.

By sunlight, the someone had slipped from my bed,
leaving a lone yellow sock by the door—
that same shade of yellow you wore when we met.
I tore all the sheets from my bed to the floor.

The cold and the callous met wholly in me
when I saw her dance ‘neath the sycamore tree,
silently eying the spin of her skirt,
how each flighty foot skipped about in the dirt.

A crowd gathered ‘round her, clothes caked with dust—
farm-hands with words full of liquor and lust
desiring her as a hound drools for meat.
I swallowed my cider and rose to my feet,

a snake through the crowd in pursuit of my stare,  
plucking her fresh as she floated in air.  
And wholly, the cold and the callous decayed
as I danced with her ‘neath the sycamore shade.