An Orgasm Imagined

An orgasm imagined
       past twilight,
  greasy jeans in the

With a spliff
   waiting nervously,
    and everyone
  refraining from finishing
     their last half a
  beer, the conversation
turns to witch doctors,
   as I tune out,
         for now.

The whole mur-mur
of talking and singing
     and forgetting,
 into an intense crescendo,
  the pinnacle of
   Monday Night,
     most sauced,
rain evaporating
  quickly off
     ceramic tile
during the lull
       of the wind. 

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