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The Hot Time
by Tom Decter
(09/08/04)
We lay
On warm white sheets.
Sweat glistening,
shimmering,
on bare skin.
The hot days have come,
as they always do
this time of year.
Like a hard slap
from the sun god,
to remind Los Angeles
of its desert roots.
A scorching heat
smothers the city.
Life slows,
grass burns, flowers wither.
Coyotes come down from the hills,
searching for water.
I taste liquid from her mouth.
Slowly I slide my fingers
across her humid back,
tracing a vaugely celtic pattern
in her moisture.
Even lust is lazy
this time of year.
©2004 by Tom Decter
Reader
Comments
Los Angeles native Tom Decter
is currently sulking in exile in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. He shares
a house with two K-9 companions and a lot of unfinished poems.
When not writing he is the Director of Marketing for a mid-sized manufacturer. If you see him, say Hello.
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The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux