Fridays When You Come to Town

Sitting on my front steps
smoking Nat Sherman's staring
at your shaved head not hearing
a thing you say
feeling woosy, my legs
I lean over and lick
the outside of you ear
and the licking echoes
down to my toes, I bite
down until I feel
something give and you
shriek. Pushing the pointed end of my tongue
far down into your ear,
tasting the wax I let out a slow
hot breath until you lose
your posture and I know you
are mine. The ash shakes off before you drop
your cigarette and I straddle you feeling the curve
of your sex through your jeans and I push
against you and away
over and over slowly
like a sheet being lifted and let down
by a great snore. This is the moment
when the dinner starts burning
and I forget to be wary of the neighbor
who sits in her window watching
everything we do.

--Suzanne L. Gillis