Art > Writing

The Way Of Things

Electric orange stripes hum
through the half-open
dust-fuzzed mini blinds
and mold themselves around
Her pale, freckled breasts.

I pretend to sleep while
She undresses,
delicate fingers slipping between
satin hips and yesterday’s jeans.

Panties damp and a little too small, clinging,



The sheets part and
Her hand grazes mine as the
Moon goes down
and the birds, starting hungry,
squawk syllables at the worms
demanding cooperation.

It’s the way of things.

Leaning in
Warm breath whispers,

"You’re going to be late for work."