Prose Poem

Each morning. The 36th Street and Lancaster Ave trolley stop. Blonde hair, long tan winter coat, a face that defines beauty. A smile? Market Street, traffic's heavy with the morning's rush. Gentle fingertips on her chin. Trolley turns towards darkness. Eye's meet as daylight diminishes. Rock of movement. Bringing together our lips, slowly at first. Thirty-third Street. Lips open, hands to open coat, door closes. Lost in sensation, tongues meeting, arms reaching. I feel her fingers under my shirt, slipping upwards. Thirtieth Street Station, long pause, lips along her neck. Pull out. Hands in, further warming against her flesh. Lips meet again, rocked gently together. Twenty Second Street so soon. Lost in her touch, her taste, the feel of her smoothness. Her responses felt across my body, entwined in each other. Desperation. Nineteenth Street. She takes the stairs on the left, every morning.