"weekender" poems
He was the Weekender Boy
with lips that tasted like salty sea caramel
on lovely Saturday mornings
and caresses that felt like soft warm sunbeams
on lazy Sunday afternoons
Mondays she sat behind him in lecture halls
watching the back of his black-haired head
as he flirted in the front row seats
Tuesdays were him walking past her bench
pinning her in place with those glacier blue eyes
that always turned away to porcelain redheaded dates
Wednesdays it was his calls that came at 3:05AM without fail
and she'd listen patiently to his drunken rants and giggles
that sometimes ended in tears and incoherent apologies
Thursdays he exhaled alcohol breaths one-two-three-four
while laying her down across his green vintage car hood
gentle as she moved lithe and languorous beneath him
Fridays they broke dorm rules and shared a room at night
they stayed up over beer and banana milk
and at sunrise she'd wake up in his arms to his smiling eyes
He was the Weekender Boy,
and she was the only girl who ever owned him on weekends.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
In Aix les bains the Moon began to ebb
weekend dry skiing gone awry,
Country and Western jukebox
by the verdant bar.
"Elle ne comprend pas",
come to me with willing woes!,
a broken heart
a tryst gone wrong?
maybe just an old fashioned
broken toe,
though no St Bernard's rescue
the Cognacs even unfaithful,
perhaps a tetanus jab
and the ferry back home.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC