The man with the grease-stained hands walks in
smelling, not of gin, but of oil and fuel.
Strong arms, not from the gym
but wrestling pistons into place.
His rough ruddy lips are chapped as they brush
with 5-o'clock sandpaper shadow
across your own.
He knows that he does not know his own strength,
a delicate kiss can become crushing
up against the wall
Arms and back full of knots
unwinding as he holds you tight.
His course fingers over your soft skin
ripping delicate fiber as he strips you
against the wall.
His hot breath on your neck
the tears in your eyes are love/lust
as you reach out, fumbling
with his belt
and denim drops around work-stained boots,
and you drop
at the throne of your one true god.