The first day,

After the rains stopped,

Your way was quick;

Felt like I’d been hit.

The second day,

Wet with your effort,

We laughed too loudly,

Rushing to replace the moment.

The third day,

I slept in.

The fourth day,

You drank bourbon, neat,

Spilled ice on our sheets, Vacated

Your eyes from the premises.

The fifth day,

Poetry flowed

Except when we snarled verses

Juxtaposed with silent resentment.

The sixth day,

We lacked time

For all but fast forward;

Windup monkeys do better.

Day seven’s

Rest was relief;

Somnolence can reckon

Better than most intimacy.