Three states in as many days
and I sit
two feet away
oppressed by the weight of
your thoughts towards me

I try to read your mind
and shudder at these:
slick gristle of old man hands
slap of bald pate
and stink of bourbon
too close to my face
for comfort

Squinting through smoke
in the lounge of a Holiday Inn
eyes bloodshot looking like
the olives in my martini
unblinking and pickled
in gin

By Saprtanburg I hated you
for loving me
Can’t forgive you for succumbing
to an invitation I never wrote
Hate you for your bended knee
and open heart

(Thinks he’s Humbert in some
depraved marijuana dream
eyes glistening from the sheen
of legs thirty years his junior
propped on the dashboard
in an Indian summer)