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The Road

By Paul Hostovsky

Why don’t we d-do it in the road? The Beatles

I’m t-trembling. It couldn’t be from fear

because we put an ear to the ground

and heard nothing coming but

ourselves. And it couldn’t be from cold because

the macadam against my bare ass feels almost

as hot as you, my love, your sweet hot

skin pressing against my own. It must b-be

the tremolo of pure desire, plain and

simple in the middle of this road, in the middle

of this plain, treeless and rolling, rolling on

forever as we rock and roll on the dotted

line. The vultures circling above us are getting

a really good view–to them we look like

the dying, like roadkill still desperately

alive, writhing and thrashing, the blood inside us

boiling over. Look, we have made a little

filthy rich pool, dark with sweat and other

sweet and salty fluids in which we recline,

affluent with effluence, floating in our own

heat, swimming in our own mirage, the music

playing on the tape deck in your car parked rakishly

in the road a few feet away, the doors wide open,

the words coming to us like inspiration.

About The Author:

Paul Hostovsky's poems have won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and have been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer's Almanac. Website:

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