The tread is still wearing well
and away from the hustings,
just your touch is such a joy.
Much more is waiting for us
beyond macaroni roads, and pasta
past of halt signs and truck stops.
From cyberspace to meeting place...
throwing our ribs on the rack,
getting down low on our back,
and putting our heads on track.
Eating in bed is a contact high,
whether a feast or a snack.
Fry me some eggs, sunny side up.
The coffee pot bubbles and brims.
We're down to our hubcaps and rims.
Forgotten, the Sunday school hymns.
Peel me a grape. Peel it all off,
and lay it on top of my tongue.
Unsung is a hard rock song in me,
strong in me, so long in me, but
caught in my throat. Fingers float
down to my cheeks. Hold on, baby!
Hold on, boy! The moon also rises.
Life is so full of surprises.
Rising to the surface for air,
we ascend to the heights, where
wheat and chaff are stripped bare.
The time has come for getting head,
for giving head, then falling back,
and sinking deep into that bed.
A robin fluttered
endlessly on hold.
I did not recognize
the windows shuttered,
keeping in the cold.
A beggar muttered
something very strange
I did not recognize.
The newsboy stuttered,
"Mister, here's your change."
A Nixon uttered,
"Blue plate special, please."
I did not recognize
the weiners, buttered
carrots, and the peas.
A stoplight sputtered
crude banalities.
I did not recognize
the roadside cluttered
with fatalities.
A robin fluttered
graceless in its form.
I did not recognize
the windows shuttered,
keeping out the warm.
Not worldly wise nor full of books
Whose soft gray eyes might cast such looks
As few deserve to see