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We sat enclosed in the confines
of leather seats that stuck
To bare legs.
summer sweat.
matchstick lit.
It burned with a promise to never touch
the tips of my fingers.Your hand-moved, consuming the flame as my
lips lowered to kiss
calloused knuckles.
Mimicking sound waves of the seventh son you whisper: “Let’s have a ball and a biscuit sugar, and take our sweet little time about it.”
It took three seconds until sulfur rose to greet me and
the fresh smell of smoke comforted me,
redolent of a time when we gave in.
You leaned in.
I leaned back.
And “It’s quite possible that I’m your third man” stuck to my neck.
You take your time and I'll take mine.
Tucking my hair behind my ears you think:
Give me three seconds and I swear the stars will align in our favor.
You "just wait"

I better get my ass married quick or I'll

waste my womb, I'll
trench my tomb, I'll

not be norm, I'll
wake not warm, I'll

sit at home, I'll
arrive alone, I'll

grow grey, I'll
soon fade.

I decided to try something different. This is a re-write of a famous poem. See if you can guess the original...