by George Henson
The door is unlocked just as
©2004 by George Henson
it has been a hundred times before.
I walk in and follow the trail
of clothes you left:
your Harley boots inside the front door;
a few steps into the living room, your white socks;
in the hallway, a white t-shirt.
Still sweat-soaked, I pick it up and breathe in
your musk; my jeans begin to swell.
I look ahead and see your Levis
at the end of the hall.
I hear the sound of water
splashing against the antique
porcelain tub you rescued from death.
Your body gives it life.
I pick up your jeans.
Your white briefs still inside,
telling me that you took them
off like you have so many times,
thumbs inside both waistbands,
pushing down until they
hover around your ankles.
You then pull them off one leg at a time.
Like your shirt, I pick them up,
and again breath in your sweat,
and my package continues to swell.
So I unbuckle, then unzip, and
walk into the bedroom, shedding my
clothes all at once, standing at attention
at the bathroom door.
I see your mast rising from the water,
and I stand on deck, salute and
ask for permission to come aboard.
George is a lecturer at Southern Methodist University. His specialization is 20th century peninsular poetry, specifically the poetry of García Lorca. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Red River Review, Thunder Sandwich,and Poetry Super Highway. He edits Wounded Pulse. He lives an uncelibate life in Dallas, and you may visit him at his Web site.