SUNDAY’S TEMPERATURE

by Arthur Smid

A breakfast crowd on Saturday night,
Hearing catcalls when you step in the light,
A red dress blown between your legs,
Feeding the flames in our embrace.

You turn me on and in the room
It’s hot. Let’s take it off.

We’re fed this way,
Love will be our food.
One kiss, you blew my bite.
How sweet you are tonight:

Sunday’s temperature breaking.
She’s licking the flames in me.

Let’s fall asleep to the wind in the leaves,
A cradle of the bough we made in the trees,
A bundle of clothes and spider webs,
Fallen to the ground from our embrace.

You turn me on and on the bed
It’s hot. Let’s take it off.