You lean back,
and your eyes go all slitty.
Your feet brace against my sandalled feet,
and I go all slutty.

Why don't we pay our bill? you ask,
or words to that effect.
I slip back, into the vortex,
rubbing my toes
against your tomentose
legs.

Yes, why don't we? I want you
to see
upstairs before we go,
anyway.

At least let me get the tip, you say.
(What am I paying for? Not why, what?
I don't want to buy anything.)

I lead you up
the stairs, past black light paintings of nude goddesses
(one looks to be a portrait of a real woman),
up to the room of skinless dogs and phrenological heads.

Pool players go through the motions.
Another jukebox in a junked car.
Diversions that interest us not.

The no-smoking room is deserted.
We sit on opposite sides
of a vinyl banquette that has lost its booth,
back to back and head to head,
unstudiously paying attention to each other.

I turn and let my arms admit
what I can't.

Loud people come and go.
'Fuckin _____!
Man, this ____ is fucked!
Fuck, man!'
I bury my face in your neck as a precaution,
as a comfort,
because it tastes good.

We get up eventually--
there's only so much to do
in such a room,
magic though it be.

Down and out and round
to the back we go,
all tangled up in each other,
half-falling,
looking at silos,
and vats,
the glow of the pool room hovering
over it all.

You push me against a cool tank
and I enjoy the sensation,
and want to be taken advantage of,
but no one seems to have the upper hand.
We see eye to eye, and hipbone to hipbone.

We walk back to the car
but don't get in.
An old bum stumbles
'round a half-block away from
our fumblings.

Do the headlights of the passing cars
truly illuminate
what you're doing with your hands?

I feel faint,
the way I do when I eat
very hot Thai food.

I drive like a boyfriend,
one hand on the wheel.
You lean like a girlfriend,
head on my shoulder.

I don't know where to go.