Home, Sweet Home

"You seem tired,"
she said,
sitting down
on the arm
of the chair
where I had
plopped myself,
exhausted
and road weary.

There's a moment
when the bones
themselves
talk to us,
tell us about
our lack of sleep,
the impersonal costs
of stress
and dissolution.

She cranked up
the handle
on the La-Z-Boy
and leaned me way back
into slumberland.

Just as I was drifting off,
I could feel
her small hand
slither down the front
of my pants
and grab me so lightly
that I could hardly sense
the motion except
for the hissing
of my jeans
as they unwound
their grip
and she retrieved me
from my slipping consciousness.  

Untangling me
from my clothing enough,
she found a space
and slipped me through
and I felt her lips
dissembling
my disqualifications
and salty excuses.  

Her mouth swallowed
my self-consciousness,
and little by little
brought me
to a state
of forgetfulness:
name, hypocrisy,
self-righteousness,
being cut off on the highway,
the tax man, insurance,
the 1000 eyed monkey
of civilization dissolving
into a pool
of non-resistance.

She leaned
back up my chest
and kissed my lips,
biting me just so,
took off my shoes,
and then threw
a blanket over me.  

She turned the TV on low
and I could only
faintly smell
diner being cooked.  

I slept
for an hour.  

Goddamn,
it's good to be home.

runningturtle87