FOOL.S.GOLD
8.19.20
enter sex stage right
sauntering into the picture in a silk robe
maybe a nude platter of figs and fine cheeses.
would it, on a feat of petulance enter stage left, perhaps? Does it knock first, or does it slide in slyly, too quick and slippery to be denied; or, would sex barge in forcibly, red-faced and green-berated, pushing all other things aside.
that almsot rain
tapping morse code messages against your window
“you can stay here a little longer” it says, “there’s more where that came from.”
but it’s 10 o’clock, as if ten o’clock were the name of some fatal diagnosis
and sex leaves when hearts start racing