15
Oct
14

Close the door

Fumbling

Somewhat clumsily

In the front

Seat

Of your car,

As the windows

Fogged

Up,

And the humidity

Climbed

Faster

Than your breathing,

Lips colliding,

Tongues searching,

Reckless

Desire

Growing

Stronger without a concern

For reality

Or passersby.

“Close the door … ”

The only instruction

Necessary,

The only admission

Made

To the absurdity

Of the moment,

The closest thing

To resistance

Without

Actually resisting.

My face

Clasped

In your hands,

As our eyes

Said the words

Our mouths couldn’t

With our lips

Otherwise engaged

And dutifully obedient

To our tongues.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

October 15, 2014

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