—I GOTTA GET MY SHIT TOGETHER, BECAUSE I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS FOREVER

 

 

His Name is Dave

 

 Afterward, I lick the lies off your fleshy lips and muster a smile.

I’ve just cum an ocean across your chest and upper freckled arms, when you ask if the gardener’s showed up yet.

His name is Dave, or Jorge, or James. Something that rhymes with slave or stave, I think. A long-A name.

I stretch for the window, see the grass overtaking the fence, the old men sunflowers stooped in a petrified sigh.

         “Not yet,” I say, upbeat as I can.

I watch a horsefly, the size of a quarter, figure-eight in the gauzy air, bumping against the glass on repeat, as if its drunk or else a masochist. 

         When you ask for a towel, I’m up and still erect, my cock pointing in every direction but home.

 “Hon,” you say, “Please. I’m still so tired.”

So, I slink past the window, the schizophrenic fly, and the barren lawn below, right on into the bathroom. I grip the hand towel looped over the silver halo and jerk it free, offer it to you, saying, “There you go, Love. Nap now. The sun’ll be up soon enough.”