3 a.m. joy ride
on an instrument without name.
You, the incisive stranger.

Fuzzy vodka fingertips lick
at smoke, thin sparks spit.

Bodies lock,
casual strain wears down,
wooden bones deprive pores.

Your hands warm,
you reach between my legs,
strain through
soft fleece cloud cover
like a scandalous poke through
a silk blouse.

Ease my body into the next plunge,
become one single nerve.
Kisses parachute
down.

A kiss can waver, wager,
change positions every half hour.

I shake, rattle.

Billow flowers, explodes,
dissolve, flash yellow.

We exhale smoke like dragons,
lounge in our loft-haven,
on a Chicago street,
el clacking above.

Then only the hiss of daybreak.

© 2004 by Kathy Kubik. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Kathy Kubik has been writing since she could pick up a crayon – she has now graduated to ink. Kathy’s work has appeared in Voices, T-Zero Xpandizine, SaucyVox(Dot)com, ERWA and CleanSheets. Her chapbook is available through her website, kathykubik.com