Voice so low;
M. Lightstone,
she drawls from my
white pickup's stereo.

With nowhere to go,
and barley a home,
spliff after spliff with my wife.

Oh, so romantic a night.
Huddled and tight.
Air-mattress delight.

Cheeks rouge-red,
we should be in bed,
whispers in the dark.

But the car's been on too long,
and her hands look so strong.
M. utters sultry literature.

Boot prints in snow,
on a gravel road,
we make our way back
to our daughter.

Perhaps tonight,
I'll return to delight,
that is M. Lightstone's
midnight radio show.

Nocturne, I return.