HOTEL EROTICA
I felt better afterwards. She moved
over on her side away from me, fingered
the white bone of the phone. I looked down
a smoky barrel of a cigarette, breathed
deep through my nose like a post-race swimmer.
I think we spoke of summers. Or something
pervasive as sky. The gold-trim chintzed
on a doorknob glint. It was half-three:
Espana wrapped itself in its siesta.
We lay still as the moment and as mortal,
in animate quiet, on an unwed bed. Outside,
as the day's suspension decayed, streetwide,
warmer languages canyoned on quick tongues:
que te quiero. But we lisped English only,
tourists hot for a short brake. We checked out,
next day, our wants in separate cases, no problem
hungry and intractable as a word like love. Or need.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
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