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lugged away or mounted bareback or saddled up
straddled and spurred on to whatever will get you
from here to there, the goings going on
in some hotel room somewhere while others go
on about their different business it could be
anywhere really, urbane or rural, inside or out,
a darkened phone booth or Juliet's tomb,
a closet or the rim of a canyon,
places you would never think, or even think of,
the cubicle next to yours, or yours
— beds made and unmade so
many times they groan when we board them again
the tangled hammock nest of ropey dreams
or lowly monster wallow in an inky pit,
or rented cot's timeless repose
where we lie lightly where we lay
the burden of the other down
all rut and abutment,
the pith pitch and the gist of it
the beveled body's unique incline to
the stark incitements of some
other creature's slightest encouragement.
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