Dream
I am a barefoot runner
You are homeless
I run into you—
you move in
in me
*
Whatever We Are or
I Am Willing to Dispense With Antiquated Notions of Romance in Favor of Getting it On
Honey, you are a poem.
There’ll be no red apricots slipped
from a pocket into your hand. Not with the way you slide
your GPS into my dash and say, This oughta get you there.
And it does, by the most direct and quickest route. Forget
long, slow rambles down scenic roads. Alight
in your hummingbird way,
just long enough to let your tongue lap my clematis. Come
for your nectar again and again
before time burns up this body
like fire burns our store of winter wood. Let’s make
every day a celebration—
even if all we’ve got is beer and chips and
salt-licks of lips. I want to string
tin cans to the bumper of your Toyota, paint
Still Married on your back window
and drive through town, the two of us, like virgins on our way
to some backwoods make-out spot. I want
to hear honking horns cheering us on louder
than the nightly V of geese flying over our house
as they migrate south. I want you
to get me dirty
with your Detroit grit. Forget
pristine shores. Rock me with your talk of Pistons and Fox Sports because
you are a renaissance man of another sort. Myers & Briggs
may peg me INFJ, but honey, you are ESPN all the way. Still,
when I hear you say,
God, woman, do you know
what it feels like to be inside of you?
I forget what we are not.