I sit on the tattered couch,
watching the clock tick
like a slow son of a bitch
in an assembly line,
waiting for quitting time.
Fingers tapping on the armrest,
heart thumping a slow
and patient drum
to Van Morrison’s Moondance
spilling from the speakers.
Shadows converge on the wall.
The street burns outside,
passion and pain.
Headlights flicker through the blinds.
I can almost feel her steps
before the door creaks,
the faint scent of her heat
clinging like smoke
to the hallway.
I imagine my fingers
caressing her orchid,
her hips grinding against mine.
The desire between us rises
like a West Coast wildfire.
My body remembers
how she loves it, how I love it.
How we collide, blazing, urgent,
and the clock keeps its slow,
apathetic click.
The key jingles in the lock.
She steps inside.
Sly, slick smile.
The bedroom seems miles away.
Hands tangled in hair.
Mouths colliding.
Her knees brace the couch.
My body presses hard behind her.
Skirt pulled up over her hips.
The world has vanished.
Just heat, thrusting, one with us.
Covenant bliss
and the clock still ticking.
Helpless witness to our gravity.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 25th, 2026 07:30
- Comment from author about the poem: For a reading of some of my work from Aluminum Cowboys, watch this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?vLEQlkNVsIQA Thank you for listening! If youd like to explore more of my poetry and prose, my books are available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/thomaswcase I hope this gives you a sense of the voice and world I try to create on the page. Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
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Comments2
Slow in anticipation fast in realization time is variable stretching and shrinking within our mind. Good write my friend
Thank you.
Well written, my friend.
Thanks
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