- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Untitled
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The gods of downpour, either overly patient,
Maybe indecisive, paused the sprinkling
For me to drive home, and
The car: silent except for the
Rumbling of the engine,
Churning on half-digested fuels,
Hovered above the pavement.
Flash of blue lights on
the other side: southbound.
Does every part of America look the same,
Same as a desolate Georgia highway,
Interstate seventy-five?
Shanty town exits, parasites of the free way,
The American way.
Nothing’s free here, he said,
And he was right.
Nothing—except his touch,
The feel of his lips and finger tips.
And nothing felt better.
