Will you still want me when I have morning breath,
or the hair I have left
sticks up in ten wrong directions at the same time?
I don’t rise and shine before nine on Saturdays,
and I watch hockey
in my underwear till three.
Will you still look me in my eyes when we screw
in the afternoon,
or will you decline
and tell me to fuck you from behind,
and not look at me,
as the light fades from the room?
Not that I have a problem with it,
unless I want to remember how your face moves
when I move through
you like you commanded.
Will you still kiss me as you leave,
in the bulb light,
when I don’t know your last name,
like your first,
as it echoed off the walls of this bare room?
When I still thought good was right,
until the fade of day to night
let me see
the thing I want for what it is.
And is that your real phone number,
or the Compton DMV?
© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday