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: paulhostovsky.com