IT MUST BE THE CODEINE

I feel you
walking up
behind me
as I sit
at my desk
working
on a poem
(maybe this poem?)
concentrating,
while Brahms grieves
for his dead mother,
and insert yourself
between me,
the screen,
& the typer's keypad.
At first
I pretend
I'm a writer
and try to look around you
at what I just wrote,
then try to work around you
so as not to forget
the last word or two
I tried to pull into the boat.

But I know it's useless.

It was useless and I was useless
from the start.
You're simply
too much
for me.

You're wearing
a loose fitting bathrobe
and underneath that soft cotton,
nothing.
You widen your stance
as you place your rump
on the edge of my desk and reach
for my hand, my right hand, take it
& slowly move it inside the fold
to your creamy white thigh
my finger feels a prickly Brazilian wax hair
as my body attunes itself to your nearness now
feeling your heat. Make me yours,
you say.
I disturb you all the time; I'm jealous
of even your words, words that don't come
out of me; I want to come out of you.
I know I'm bad; I've always been bad;
I want everything when I want it and
I want everything now; I'm a little cunt
who can't get enough of you & from you.
Never enough...I know
I need to be
punished.

My fingers, my body, my soul
knew her openings as if we had radar
from the first.
I went in
hard, the way
she likes it,
& a fountain,
warm, but crazy
gushed out & onto
my fingers
down my wrist
and puddled in my palm
and finally down
my arm.
I needed to taste her,
I needed to absorb her,
& did.

I love you,
she said; let's go
into bed.
Yes,
let's.

The day
was still
young.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014