LOVE

You ask me what this is and

the truth is I have never 

awakened beside a woman 

whose name I didn't know

although for years that was

the goal -- to rut with anyone

and everyone, slap your jewels

against some beauty's groin,

to wake beside some stranger

and her tousled hair: that 

moment of awareness -- you 

can call it a sudden insight

if you want, or tumescence --

what spurs the next action?

Do you kiss them gently on

the shoulder, the neck, and

rub the soft kitten whiskers 

of her belly, or do you arise 

discreetly only to fumble 

with your pants, or reach for your robe 

and make coffee and omelettes?

After all, everyone craves 

an omelette after a night 

of raucous banging like a 

billy goat against some kilowatt

dam, or do you lie there feigning

sleep until she musters the dignity

to think through the situation 

before she bares herself?  The theme 

is always rescue me, despite this 

awkward pawing under the quilts, 

the shock of memory, the carnal 

blood, the ache in your chafed loins, 

there was always the promise of 

buttered croissants in a bag, cranberry 

muffins and marmalade, french coffee 

and cream, all of this served with the 

modesty of tenderness and 

amnesia, looking into each 

other's eyes for a trace of wilderness, 

and warmth, and forgiveness, and 

not resort to using your old shirt 

as a coffee filter and last night's 

pud thai and mustard sauce.  This truth

is, all of this happens, and more, 

and whether we call it love or 

lust, amore or shacking up 

or frugging or shagging or fucking 

or just a spring fling or a trollope 

or an indiscretion, a one night stand, 

a hump or just a good ole romp 'em, 

womp 'em session with a fuck 

buddy, I tell you, well, I 

don't really know, son, sometimes it 

seems like such a great idea, to 

couple up when you can, chase a 

whole lotta tail and bray like a jackdaw 

at dawn at how much you've tagged and 

shellacked, and all I can tell you 

is that sometimes all of that is 

involved, it's more than the guacamole 

and kielbasa breath in the morning, 

it's more than the instinctual 

drive to thrust and grind and slobber 

and squeeze, there's more to it than that, 

it's more than champagne spritzers 

or hair of the dog bloody mary's 

and burnt toast and the need for a 

shower to wash off the lovestink,

it's not a poem or an exchange 

of flowers or chocolates--but 

waking up beside strangers?  

We do that every day.