in the arms of a stranger, it's so long to 'how long,'
the ending-writ being composed in the arms of a stranger,
the surprise, the uncomplicated simplicity of a "yes, why not"

the normalcy of the out of the ordinary has a finery that's
abnormally kind in a peculiar way & a comfortable shiny finish of  a cry and a 'whew,' a laugh, a pause, a kiss on the nose,
that's familiar from a who knows me, who knows where, a silence,
a kindness to pass the collection plate of stored memory genes now
kickstarted hot and then a transition to the here and now of

hysterically funny bad jokes, a beer and a wine, and a Samuel Barber adagio that seals some of the open wounds and one can't stop thinking, thank god for the little things, the big ones never get resolved anyway, so the arms of a stranger, the long neck, tan shoulders, the eyes culling a list of unasked questions, looking for the crease in the pauses and an entry point to the decision of crossing the river of no return from the security of being strangers, whose bodies sang a two part harmony coming to a closing, last call from the barkeep lady tossing you your pants with an
awshit and the widest Mississippi River grin you've ever seen

and she asks do you like steak and laughs when the response is "with extra sizzle and Heinz ketchup" and the answer means the other questions will keep, at least for now and until

the violin weeping of a chest breathing hard but slow on the device
has played thrice, and the arms of easy are now fraught with the scent of risk, when the next the line is crossed with a followup of
"fries or baked potato?"
and it's too late, the memory machine has started recording and what is truly strange is that you can't recall what the day of the week tomorrow will be and if you have any plans that must be kept and that doesn't seem to be of any concern of anybody in the immediate vicinity of the her who's unconsciously humming the wholly appropriate, interesting choice, best love song, that  Dolly Parton ever wrote^