he called her.

it was one of those
no-chance gambles.
as he phoned with
the expectation of
still masterbating,

call in sick, he
stated — guaranteeing
to be at her place before
all her workers could
trace her crawl
down the backstairs.
he’s ready to get
pissed. and fade
into the night…”

then wake up mid
morning to get
hammered some
more. pour. rush.
chills. door shuts.

just felt like it
was one of those
days. older women
all understood his

they sang. drank the
juices in. he wrote
music notes floating
deep inside her
vibrating hormones,

as far north as the
oviduct gathered
ducts structured
by frail weakened
whimpering moans.

– – – – –

“he sung inside me
as my body numbed
and my inner thighs
became the delta
of the Nile river,

most saturated ever.
every note in tune
an integument of
friction limiting me
to a whisper,

i beat you to it
screwdriver martini
army green olive.
pink mediterranean
seed. sing to me.
raise the climate
in this apartment to
a blazing orchestra.

swim in the puddles
i leave below your
waist.” creating a
hammered reaction
where he exploded.

this young buck
hit all the buttons
right on the first
time from the moment
they toasted their wine.

and she sped home
having no room to
freshen up. up. up.
the adrenaline.
as she mentioned,
“i can’t be believe

he called me.”