Status

Yearns for the porchlights of
lovers not yet been but cannot
also remove those who’ve
been and gone.

Lover-
here-lover-now is tattooed
in luminous ink on the thinnest
skin of my chest, so no one worry:
This is one we’re both in.

Can taste today on her tongue
the vodka-dipped mouth she could have,
really should have, but never managed to
kiss into oblivion so those black
cherry lips bleed their wetness
over her chin, onto her chest, past
her thin, bright skin and down
into the place where dragons
might have been.

Never, there were never, dragons.

Is growing old with desire,
sometimes, but nevertheless
knows: at any age, she can stand
on the front porch bare-chested
and shine her thinskin tattoo to lovers
gone, and yet to have been, who are looking,
always, for that weekend c(o)untry home.