****, son, it's late, it's too late.
But he sends her up for him anyways, first over the phone, then up the elevator, then down the hallway
And he welcomes her inside with the smell of hotel sheets.
Sorry for the draft, and he stuffs a towel into the crack below
the door.
She's like a duchess on a throne which is his bed,
and he sits across from her and puts the coffee on to drip as she undoes herself
jewels
dress
hair
which tumbles down her back and it wants to go further but she stops it
He pours them each a cup, it smells of vanilla and faraway places
And he wonders if shes ever been to any of them,
the faraway places,
But only for a short moment does he wonder this,
as she is here to make love to him,
and he scrubs the veneer from his face and
Lets her look at him
for a little while
Before he beckons her into him
And he whispers his secrets in her ear
as she Rocks Back and Forth
in his lap
like a cat or a merry-go-round,
And she makes him feel like a man in love,
Maybe even a married man,
A man with a deep, mad, certain love
that won't keep him awake at night.
