The Fieldstone Review

Halloween Blind Date

Rain pats the windows of the Greyhound. The shadow of the pen
hovers on the gleaming rubber floor. I am warm. Outside
in the dark, red lights, racing

white lines. The shadow of the pen hovers above
me when we walk across the street and you pull
my neck. We hit heads. Hi buddy,

this feels good. When I hover above you, the shadow delineates
the contours of your breasts. I take off your shirt and the pen
gets lost in ebony skin, in its glare. My head gets lost

in the long grace of your fingers. I'm a sailor
and you are my captain, the best
looking person on the Titanic. Sit on my lap,

you say. Your best friend Oscar Wilde plunges on top
of me and we tumble on the floor. Take my hand,
you dance better than me, you are the lead. You claim

that you only appreciate women bent over
with a bag on their head. I exhale, request paper
instead of plastic. Tonight I follow

a shadow; it hovers between three shining gravestones
in an ill-lit front yard. Three skinny kids dressed in white
and charcoal lie in the grass. I am drunk and balance

on the edge of the sidewalk. The world
is quiet. There's no more moaning. There's no moon. You tug
at my blazer until I close my eyes and topple into darkness.