One Night Stand

In response to you, my dear merry pops,

these are a few of my favorite things:

The knighted satin evenings of drips and drops

where croony music seeps slowly, slipping

sloppy kisses and even sloppier limbs.

The armchairs backed and stacked

as the tethers of the rug are

etched, stretched, strained,

while the restless phone on the nightstand rings in vain.

No hand can be spared, least of all an ear

And then the solitary moments collide, then subside, then all is blind.

Until morning, where mildewed awkwardness lingers and it is over.