a midnight phone and he is
in town and wants to see her,
spend the night (for the sake of

convenience, of course) but she
is not fooled by her night love,
so she leaves the door open.
and he shares stories of his
day's travels. and he is warm,

losing his sweater. his belt
is quick to follow, falling
between his discarded shoes.
she is slow to turn, but he
does not push. her shirt and all
pretense fall to the floor. there
is nothing between them now

and she asks, tell me, boy, when
did you first love me? and he

does not know, but sates her with
memories of kisses shared
under someone else's stars
that chilly summer spent sneak-

ing through forbidden doors and
he is warm with his slow hands
and dangerous tongue while she
moans his name to the ceiling.
her bed creaks in time with his

rhythm. she is writhing bare-
ly breathing and she cannot
remember she had planned to

sleep alone tonight. but when
she can stand again, she toasts
bagels the way he likes them.

he wants for nothing now, sprawled
half-blanketed beside her.
but she wants his arms around
her and though the night's chill reads
thirty-seven, he says he
is too warm to be so close.

and she asks, tell me, Love, when?
and he does not know when he
stopped.

but in the morning he will
still want one more for the road.

11/21/2002

Posted on 11/29/2002
Copyright © 2024 Meredith C Hartwell