Fingers wrap around
cracked plastic steering wheel
of the forty-eight Ford
while curved glass bottles
of *** and coke
perch on the crest
of the dashboard.

I cup her left breast,
explore for
another short-lived feel
as my breath wrestles
with the scent of
lavender beneath her ear.

Tingles and beads of sweat
inter-mingle damp
on my collar.
My lips labor
toward her cheek
methodically
like a grandfather
ascending a steep stairway.

Her nylon-protected thigh
burns against my gabardines
kicking static electricity
off of sagging seat covers.

I fumble with the catch
of her bra against her back.

Parked here to spoon
feels better than
playing amateur baseball.
No audience
watches me
drop the ball
or toil to get
to second base.

Bent over, pen in hand
carefully squeezing between
thumb and forefinger

Looking up to scrolled
white on black cards,
a's and b's

Performance at chalkboard
do so carefully
each stoke and space

Turn the handle slowly, steady
hold the yellow number two
firmly in the sharpener

Practice capitals
slow movement with slight pressure
leave space between words

Circle, circle, fill the page
loops, curls
wave upon wave across the lines

Write your name
no printing allowed
this will be your identity

The wait
massages my soul
as I become still.
My breathing
finds a cadence
like a monk in meditation.  

In my dream
you pose for me
as your tongue
licks nectar
from petunia buds.  

I conjure
florescent shades
unlike those
any artist
can splash
on canvas.  

The wait for you
is as near to heaven
as I fathom
I will get
while here on earth.

I want a day with a morning mist
that burns off
as the sun finds its way
through the thin trunks of Loblolly pines
along the river.

I want to *****
over logs and through bogs
and find my way around the bend
among whatever crawls, digs and hunts
along the river.

I want to feel like the first person
to sink my heels into untrammeled riverbank
and discover what raccoon and ****** know;
there is promise here
along the river.

I want to blaze a ****** path
and hear cracks, snaps, and squishes play a song
with each step of my boot
along the river.

I want to see what is
beyond the bend  
along the river.

In the fog of war
Decisions are made in haste

In the dew of night
Misinformation prevails

In the heat of noon
Soldiers await their orders

In the day’s tumult
Dead bodies drape the landscape

In the daze of war
Mistakes are often concealed

After the war’s fog
May the truth be ascertained

In the dew of peace

Fingers do a resolute tap, tap
on leather sofa arm.
Eyes shift upwards as
she enunciates each word
“I should have screamed
more.”

No longer does she live
like furniture
in a summer home,
hidden and covered
except when needed.

Newborn screams pierce
her coverings
and erupt, signaling
an end to her pretense.

Weary of repairing
other’s battered armor,
she hammers out
her own dents.