You’ve already left for work
when I awake,
embracing the empty air
and breathing in
your dimestore perfume
that everyone mistakes for French.
“Apres l’amour” sings Aznavour
the tousled sheets still bear
the imprint of our bodies.
I can still feel the frisson
of your breasts
brushing back and forth
against my chest
like light riffs on a snare drum,
the touch of your fingers
cradling my sex as if it were
a small lost bird.

The first time
in the Rockaways
The Drifters were singing
“Under the Boardwalk””
in four-part harmony
as we fumbled at zippers and hooks,
our hurried climax
taking us by surprise
and dampening our clothes.
Apres l’amour we shared
a menthol cigarette
and strolled hand in hand
along the midway,
burying our flushed cheeks
in mounds of cotton candy.
We paid a buck apiece
to see a tatooed lady
with a giant cobra
draped around her neck.
We could have touched her skin
and felt the cobra’s oily scales
but that cost a dollar extra
and we were young and broke.

(originally published in Enhance Magazine)