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Mother Lode!
Pungent and tangy, Limburger, or some such, thick cut on warmed rye,
Served with Mocca? no Arabica, treacle dark and scalding.
Her breakfast, Linda, Lydia, or some such,
As rough edged and hasty as our drunken lovemaking.
„I'll be late for work!" she said.
In the gray dawn, two wolves meet for the first time, over carrion!
They circle , warily, each focussed on the other's weakness and hunger.
What was that? A one nighter? Another just friend?
The good prospect of last night had delivered.
Often and easily.
Oscar winner or lonely girl? Nympho or user? Soul mate? Loser?
Whatever!
Her gold gleams in my pan of memories and I can smell paydirt.
Caution belongs to the wind, I offer her my throat:
„Will I see you?......I mean, will you call?..It's just that............I really do like you!"
The obligatory pregnancy gives us pause, but the anticipated blow never falls.
She calls:
„I'm sick, my migraine, I'll be in tommorrow!"
And she starts to undress,
Mother lode!
