Here we stand,
partially peeled
like overripe fruit bursting forth,
moist and warmed
by our own internal suns,
half-finished passion
just begun
then interrupted.

You,
hair tangled.
Me,
half strangled by the tie,
haste left behind
as the shirt tore past.

Damn the fire department.
Damn the ambulance.
Damn the sirens.
Damn the penetration
of our lust bubble.

Playing with matches,
were we.
Neglecting the patches of thin ice,
talking as strangers,
dancing with dangers of unprotected,
least expected sex,
on a first date.

We didn’t wait the half an hour
before we swam out to oblivion,
coming home after the streetlights lit,
didn’t ask to cross the street,
or look both ways.

So here we stand,
facing the metaphorical accident
that we become.

My saggy, soiled boxers,
one big toe shows naked white
to complement the tie.

Your under wire bra
with its frayed and twisted strap
half down your shoulder,
lime panties built for comfort,
not for speed,
don’t obviate the need
we found in fast abundance.

The firemen were nice,
they only snickered twice
at our passion-fueled,
broken ruled,
headless rush to lust.
They even saved the dog.

Now,
half-wrapped in city blankets,
behind the ambulance,
barefoot.

Who thought a chance encounter
would blossom into maelstrom,
and breaking all the rules
would make us public fools,
with forgotten pots upon the stove.

An unwatched pot does boil,
down to ignition
wild and fast,
and scars the near environment
with passion marks that last.

At least we washed behind our ears...

07/29/2006

Posted on 07/29/2006
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers