SUNDAYS
 

Sunday mornings begin at 11:00 a.m.
like cat scratches on a window screen
or a bullet to the brain.

Little beard stubbles glisten erect,
moss-sweet flesh blushes hot-pink
as coffee-cream smiles
stir us awake.

We rise,
perpendicularly half alive.

Soon, I feel the soft touch
of your loins
pressing hungrily against my side,
wishing for kisses in reply,
then thirsting
for more immediate attention.

-- But bar-bitten, pink-eyed,
cotton-mouth returns
with a vengeance,
craving Visine and V-8 Juice,
while Love's only real desire
... an aspirin.
 
 

~ Bud Evans (c) 2000 ~