I woke up thinking

I was still there -

Among grandparents and their church groups;

A few people I knew,

The ever-present, perky waitresses.

But it's two in the morning.



But I'm still there.

I drum my nails on the waxy-wood table,

Watch the smoke dance seductively

From a cigarette, dwindling

On cupid-lips.



And I'm still there.

The tableware clatter and old-people chatter

Become walls around us.

And I'm still here -

Dreaming this fantasy aloud;

An enchanting discourse

Without sacred ground.

She fills the gaps in my rotten core,

Caressing my ears with conversation.

My eyes dart dizzy with desire

As she squeezes a plastic udder

Of its cream.



Our clothes kept falling off

And I learned a bit of life

As I made love to her soul.



The lot is lit with street lamps

Where she began a burning bliss within me -

I can't wait to watch her sleep.

I've fallen into it again;

I still smell her dream.