How Great It Was To Make Love To Aretha Franklin [Circa 1970]

Travelling to meet at some motel along
Route 66, or Highway 51,
Passing children swinging tennis rackets
Hitting stones across wastelands,
A snapped string every other strike.

Arriving at the deepest hour,
Smelling the cedar-wood foundations,
As some black cat pours itself
From a fence to a path.

Slipping in, like a delicate, dreamy fish,
Amberlamps glowing and leopard-skin prints,
A baroque clock on the wall melts
Into the fuchsia patterned paper
And the throat of the wind chokes outside.

Seeing her gnaw on the wing of a chicken in bed,
Her nightdress, corners her curves, a silken red.

Moving hands across her sand-coffee skin,
Kissing her rose of a smile and unfolding,
Until we build to
That moment -
The only purest present
That moment -
Of absolute orgasm…

Collapsing, with the birds
Whistling outside, duped into daylight.