Fresh Brine

Quarter-mile east the alley

near the underpass

where the ancient

king-wide mattress

seals the passage,

save the footway,

trodden ‘neath the

leftward section of the

concreted circumference

for the rumbling machines above,

the young lad and his satin girl

clutched time together,

laced with leather bands.

Nobody’s watching.

They wordlessly agreed there,

something hidden from me,

lips thinning, dimples grow contagiously.

So they sauntered from the concrete slab

where time was keen to quickly pass,

to the royal secret

under the headlit highway.

Not knowing

where he’s going,

he’s been showing

moment’s glowing

from his wristwatch charm.

And it’s true,

the satin-lover knew

he wasn’t out to get her

but show her

how to still the time.

They’re just looking to still time.

Fresh brine. Fresh brine.

Stepping like a gypsy

toward the footway trodden

clear through and through.

There’s a musk of...untouched linens...

long kept away from...what’s within them...

There’s a lumpy something

‘neath the royal dusty quilt.

Demands a curious look.

6 frigid toes exposed,

the cold will eat them through.

Startled, he comes to,

crawling childlike and nude,

protective of his satin,

fast ‘til morning dew.