Lush
This morning
at the pool, Dobson puts fifty
lengths
between himself and some lush
who put the
moves on him and blushed.
A two-glass
touch, swimming in a lake of red,
told him she’d
already booked a hotel bed,
to shelter
from that untimely storm without.
He’s recalling
ships put into any harbour,
siren slot
themselves in protective sleeves
when gathered
clouds in knitted brows shout
how stray pussy
is never not worth the hunt.
You’ll find
it sheltering who knows where
from tempests,
torrential his hot desert rains
bring
circling cars, flopping in filthy floods
like
one-armed single legged whirlpool frogs
floundering around
stirring lily white pads
in
tillerless circles, oared by a one eyed cox.
She’s
smiling affirmations and offering slurs,
push jalapenos
topped with clotting cheese,
chocolate
roses adorn pillows plump, tease
cherry
stalks in his and hers - but he demurs,
thinks it’s
not just wine that’s bringing her flush,
red
throated warbling, but still, something lush.
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