The Cellar Door

 
The Cellar Door

She was like that
a slow grind against
the cellar door,

a building urgency
separated by a few
layers of thin fabric,

straining like the wood -
bowing with each thrust,
rusted hinges moaning

as loudly as us, one
hand grasping the lock
another kneading a breast.

She wore me in tiny
bruises across her neck,
a rumpled blouse

and wrinkled pants -
bits of her fabric
fused to the paint.

Yeah, she was good
for a time, that slow grind
against the cellar door

until I had nowhere to go
but to someone faster
and left the door behind.