Alone on the line
your nightshirt talked to me
hocking memories faster than a newlywed
fraught with plans
to pay the jeweler.
A brush of flannel dusted
off my heart's memoirs
with evenings spent on the floor
while we rolled wildly
over tiles and piles of books
for cooks and nooks
for our playthings.
Arms reached out to me
from the rusted wire and poles,
feeling my flanks, my thighs,
and filling me with sighs
from the tugs and pulls
at love's astute soldier
growing ever bolder
with each night gust.
Breath of wind, lover's gale,
fills your nightshirt anew
and I see you pant, nay gasp,
as we arrive at Eros' door
banging and knocking, avowing
to renew our vows of complicity
in creating the felicity
found in the embers and afterglow
before this gust leaves
you gutless
and me guiltless.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones