Friday, April 6, 2012

Rum Fog


Tipping, tilting, swirling sway
My shirt ripped thrown tossed wavy
Blurred wet kisses mouths slipping
Sparkled loot weighty curvy jewels
Alone on the ship
Down below
Slivered fingers grip driftwood rails
Dampness sheets flapping sails
My quarters entered
You made it in
The crew hisses on clear cold gin
And all I beg for under your thumb
Is the amber bloody fog of rum

- Patti Friday, Poet Industries, Embassy of Ideas

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