Tijuana 2

Tijuana 2
I sit in the air-conditioned bus,
staring out the window
at a world that is as foreign to me
as I am to it.
Ramshackle huts, looking like toy cardboard
boxes, fill the hills and mountains.
Brightly colored, yes, but frightening
in how fragile they look
how so very impermanent.
The bus driver points out
a house on the side of the mountain,
built by an artist,
in the shape of a naked woman.
The world tilts, whirls, and slides into the erotic dreams
of my fantasies...
the heat of the day making my fantasies hotter
sweat beginning to drip down my body
despite the air conditioning.
I imagine a house shaped like you
how I would explore it
the way it would curve just so.
How the heat of the day would soak into
the "skin" of the house
making it feel so warm and inviting.
I would go out and caress it
as if it were your own flesh,
running my hands along the walls
as if to feel your body in the plaster and wood
of the house.
I would rub my body against the wall,
imagine our bodies rubbing against each other,
skin against skin,
the friction creating such heat
such desire.
The house would be so hard,
just in the places you are,
so rigid,
so firm.
As I think of all the places on you I love to touch,
the bus comes to a stop.
People start to file off,
looking curiously at the woman
who is drenched in sweat
in an air-conditioned bus.
I think I'll never forget that house.