When day warps into grey skies, sprinkled white
such devious deeds beckon the man –
they rip him away
from his bedside's console
to table, cup-covered.
The plural game plays on
while I, jealous fool
watch mute, but true
with my wandering deer eyes, famished black.
Staring censure into him,
with tentative hand
reaching into judgment’s prison.
The stiff wrist of my distant partner
swung through blur-eyed onlookers.
Deprived, I play in vain
until sheet-crumpling night
when his Shire-bed
opens to collect our fleshy secrets, to engulf:
competition, lies, us.
I sigh as sunrise drives the man
and with reluctant hand –
smoothed and tucked away
linens, secret-dewed in that sweet array.
Created: Apr 04, 2012tigerstripes Document Media