Driving home,
Music fills
Only my ears.
“Roadhouse Blues”
Rhythms drill
A hole in the dampening valley
between my thighs.
Rolling hills,
Curving fences with matching treelines,
Pointed, rounded, protruding,
Rise and plunge
With the silky, smooth bassline,
The thumping, humping
heartbeat of drum.
Bursts
of piano adrenaline,
Intermittent guitar
grunts and groans
Of harmonica
Stroke the skin along my
Naked arms, shoulders,
Creep under the seam of my
Tank top, waistband,
Crawl up inside my pants' legs.
My hips tilt back in the
Driver’s seat,
Responding to
Jim’s command to
“Roll, Baby, roll,”
And I wish you were here.
We’d do it right
There by the pond,
The cows,
The tin roofs,
The old cemetery behind the trees,
You scattin’ my name
While we rolled,
Babe.