Smoking deep,
counting brownstones.
His angled thrusts
and creaking noises
tweak my temples. Spike them.
Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one…
He, he knows about me, you know.
Shoved me against the wall once,
clearly, he’s thought this through.
I tongue strings
of loose cheek-flesh,
chewing them thoughtlessly.
Sixty-three, sixty-four…
Tomorrow shall come
and she’ll need me yet
by God.
I am the long haul man
with flowerbed boots,
counting her freckles
along the curve of my hand.