We had a time of it,
sitting on the edge of the bed.
Thinking about the river and
the women there
who think "hey sweetie"
is not a conversation starter.
The water still chops
this late into the dead of fall.
Matching eyes, my browns to his orange,
wondering where the edges
wear rough in this one horse town and
we blend in like stripes on a horse,
we yawn and exchange the wharf
for the bed
because some of us have work
in the morning,
but we had a time of it
while we sat and snacked
on the big peach ball of the sun
doing it's best not to sweat in the water
and the weather too smooth too late,
like fresh pudding skin when you're already prepared
for night caps and long sleeps,
and we agreed
not to rely on another soul,
spitting into the waves,
because all a highway man needs
is a cat with at least as much scratch
to watch his back.
