Wild
Thing
Marc
Swan
In the small room above
the bird of paradise,
over the lawn sprinkler, birdbath, the dog
barking at the postman who never arrives,
she stays when she comes
to the city.
It is in this tiny room we meet
when the good doctor is away,
when the good doctor
has given me the key
we meet on the rose dust-colored throw
atop an old-fashioned oaken door-shaped bed
where I rediscover the
mystery that lies
inside her slender thighs, between her legs,
in the soft milky skin of her breasts, taste
the sweetness of her
breath, find sustenance
in this warm place. Through the open
window of this unassuming room, noises
of this teeming city
arrive in full force
with the thick California heat of a fat sun,
with the cool wind of a new moon, never alone
these purveyors of harsh
sound.
She must cross over roadways, travel city
streets, take a bus, a train, a motorcar along
a highway I've never
seen to visit me
in our special room. I worry her safely
down these winding, nefarious roads, imagine
wild things she encounters
on this long,
arduous trip, unsavory characters who imagine
the secret places only I, and the cameraman, know.
The 2River
View, 2_3 (Spring 1998)
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