A man lies down in my mind.
We have just made love.
It went historically well, the kind
of hand-in-glove
expertise team workouts can evoke.
Now we lie still and smoke,
the ashtray on my belly blue
as chicory in the dixie cup
on the deal bureau. True,
it's a borrowed room. Third-floor walk-up
as a matter of fact,
foreign enough to enhance the act.
Say it's Grand Forks, where I've never been.
All this takes place in the head,
you understand. I play to win
back wicked afternoons in bed,
old afternoons that were
shadows on the grass longer
than home runs lofted out of the park.
We smoke. The chicory blue goes dark,
the ashtray deepens
and the sun drops
under the rim the way it happens
like a used-up lollipop
and the room goes blind
and a man
a man lies down in my mind.
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