Listening Between the Thunder Strokes — A Poem

Listen

The secret is the foreplay

all of the stuffing and folding and cramming

that goes into the making of this bed

the fuck you called fantastic is nothing but the culmination

every single I-love-you, all of the cups of coffee

the beads of conversation we’ve strung together

all of the hugs and shouting and the hair you braided

when my arms couldn’t reach and the sinks of dishes soaped, rinsed and dried

and all of the meals we’ve made and ate together

that’s what foreplay really is

this fuck we’ve just completed is nothing more than a single segment of lifelong lovemaking

that may someday climax with the two of us sitting together

watching Oprah on television and turning around to say goodbye with

that last sledgehammer thundering in the arm, as a dribble of spittle runs from chin to chest

as a body slowly topples from the couch and another reaches gray arthritic arms out

in a too-late attempt to reclaim what is already spoken for

Or maybe it will end with one of us

remembering the other while we are in the arms

of the third lover we’ve taken since drifting apart

five years from now

Or maybe it may climax in the shout of passion we fleetingly recall

as we pass away alone in some lonely garret

or equally lonely three bedroom bungalow

remembering the love that we made today

Listen

it’s not the thunder you should be listening to

it’s all of those millions of fruitless raindrops

now that’s where the action is.

I hope you liked that poem. I’m working on another hot smutty short story for you folks that should be ready in a day or two.

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Bye for now!