I turn to see you rising
with the sun,
the number of days these hands
didn't touch you, are a rail of dust
between drawn blinds.

Slowly, caffeine and the Holy Ghost
bring my bones back
to the dance.
I remember a drum means
move this arm, the swinging hip,
once a signature,
begs for mercy.

There's yet a kiss here
and a doo-wop fit to turn tables.

Are you barefoot my Beretta ?

rejoin our jukebox marriage.
Drop the moon like a quarter
and push my G7.

It's only hours 'til Friday night
and I've got nothing on you,
that breath
won't take away.
Will SchmitComment