We were tripping in the backseat
of a car heading for Chicago,
holding hands
under a secret, blue blanket
because we were already obligated
to others;
but we were tripping
and had an excuse in that,
so I felt the callousness of your hands
up close;
so I drank in the sharp features of
your fine, Jewish face;
so I counted the black roots of
your dyed-blonde hair,
and there were many, so very many;
so I kissed you
and your tongue felt like any other;
so I felt your breasts
and they were small,
but what did that matter? we
were tripping,
so I sucked on your brown nipples
and they became hard
and you whispered,
“ This is so strange,”
as if it was some secret;
and so I leaned back against the stereo speaker
and you lay on top of me
and no one in the front seemed to notice
or care
(hadn’t we slept with them already?)
and the sky gently grew dark
as if we were tunneling into the Earth
getting closer, closer now, to the core;
and so I tried to place my cock
inside you
but you stopped me short,
you were on the rag you said,
but what did I care?
I wouldn’t have got it up
anyway.

I never was with you again
after that weekend
and you know what? it didn’t
matter,
because we had others,
and we had our time.