Flush

Like a feral cat in the sticky heat

I stalk the gritty pavement.

My bare toes, as Maraschinos,

paint their sweet cherries to its rough face,

gushing and red.

Like the pounding beat from the flesh-filled bar,

I’m distorted in the humid haze.

Its skin tastes like the dripping sweat

of the Mayan chocolate melting in my pocket,

peppery and rich.

Like the bruises bared on my tender wrists,

The blue night encircles and pulls me.

Its wet mouth spits blood to my cheeks

in the air like syrupy medicine,

intoxicating and strong.

Like an arching spine on a basement bed,

my parting lips curl slowly

to kiss the shoulder of my cigarette’s slender arm,

drawing in the glowing combustion he clutches,

fiery and quick.