Ace of Slaves

I miss going home with
a Woman,
entering an
old house
to her room

The old wood floor,
flaking wall paint
drafty, overpainted
windows

Letting winter
winds howl through
their panes...

The stilted chatter,
of forced conversations,
marking time until..

The moment swings,
into moods of lust,
and touches,
talk instead

The lights go out,
and moonlight's
silver fingers
lightly stroke
each body
seeking
the other's
warmth

I miss waking
later, and
looking out at
pre-dawn haze
that baptizes the city
while she sleeps

With hangover
beats within my head
chills in bones,
cat piss breath

Hoping desperately,
for real connections,
rather than
horrid shame,
cold dismissals,
awkward stillness,
pining for the relaxed
acceptance
of each other's
humanity

I miss frozen
rides home,
with chilled-numb
hands, clung onto
cycle grips,
while frost-stars
are born on
my helmet's
face shield

Exhaust notes
crack, through thin
Autumn air,
bouncing
from walls,
shaking ground,
resounding thrall
banishes lingering
evil, cleansing
my neighborhood

Totally spent,
I fall into bed,
in my leather jacket,
the warmest cocoon,
invincible armor,
against all mortal
or natural threat

Riddled though,
like a B-17 over Schweinfurt,
with the anxious pangs
of longing,
torn open by
love's budding hope
poisoned with anticipation,
the ultimate winner,
the Ace of Slaves