ALL THE THINGS
THAT ARE STOLEN
Up the causeway and over the bridge, the guy
running with a stolen bicycle : flat tire no matter
run fast get away. I can see how it all works.
One must operate fast, swiftly, quickly, like
illicit love on a train, in a cabin you're not
supposed to be - stretching somewhere
across the middle of France. Her bare ass
up over the webbing on the back of the seat,
your legs straddling her like a machine gun
blasting down a cavern, a fox hole, a bunker,
a trench. Just like any of the old wartime stuff;
and isn't war just sex anyway with another name?
Throwing that skirt up over her face, I thought of
nothing so much as getting it done and leaving
no trace. Like the coal car in a picture of some
old blackened train - spewing smoke and grime,
but no one really knowing a thing, no one
really knowing a thing about any of it at all.
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