I always meet the best one-night stands at poetry readings,
men begging to be pushed against fences with stolen kisses-
poets are easier to wake up holding parts of that no one will ever
Men craving one night of intense contact,
their lips clasping words that have yet to be embraced,
moaning worship that sounds almost real.
There is something about poets that makes me want to kiss them asleep
awake so deeply their dreams go unnoticed,
makes me think of ice cream and bubble baths.
Maybe it is the cadence of written words
urging me to take a pulse with my cheek from the writer's hip,
-tickling the goose bumps on the back of their legs.
What can bring back inspiration?
Or words that thump against me hard until I feel them probing the pros
cons of every decision I’ve ever made.
Poets always need to make out in an unnamed alley,
they learn to breathe out of their ears so as not to interrupt their
tongue-licking in a peanut butter on-the-roof of your mouth style.
Poets are great with grabbing the hair on the back of my head kind of
great with pinching of bra-less nipples,
great at keeping the bed warm.
But simply the idea of a one-night-stand leaves me feeling like a
bus transfer folded in the back pocket of jeans in a hamper.
petals fall and tolerating the stepping on my toes does not guarantee
figure knocking on my door.
Instead sacrificing myself will only highjack my safety and I'll be
lost among faces I recognize and streets I know.
Poets need to wake up
and upset stomachs
are only leftovers from champagne the night before,
and knowing, there is more distance between us than the stars we wake
Something about a one-night stand reminds us-
we all came from sweat.
And chances are we don't dream for the shadow of a white picket fence.
Besides, for poets with words embroidered into our definition,