Up to the knees
in the smell and lasting of it.
We, warriors, laughing
until someone caught a mouthful.
Then, not because we were grown,
but because love’s the Viking maker.
It becomes more desperate then play.
A life or death struggle to avenge impulses.
You will rue the day
you dove into these mud flats.
Rue the day ’til the sun exhausts us.
It’s always been like this.
You hit me when I’m happy
and most vulnerable.
I’ll make you rue the day, damn it.
You’ll have mud coming out your pores
and we’ll laugh again completely.
Not so hard!
And not in the face!
Give me that funky groove.
Now, shake it until you feel better.
Not sort of better,
I mean straight butter better.
You get me?
It’s the rhythm, dig?
The inside pocket.
The beat you feel inside your bones
that won’t let you sleep at night.
He was the straight man.
Naomi was the support for the ingenue.
Wanted to cast him
in the play within the play.
Waited stage left as he exited
after getting a big laugh.
“Why won’t you love me?” she pleaded.
He said nothing
and walked to the dressing room.
Had a sandwich and changed.