A Sahara of Sorts
The desert’s dessert’s a date; mine
came late, with hair palm-mussed
and blushes deep as sunburn stuttering
through the tangle of door and greeting.
We rushed to an encampment
of sheet–each, just late
of a “relationship” (as in
left high and dry) and
not yet willing to wade into any
true waters, but still deserving–make that,
desperate for–a firm moist warmth
that whetted (otherwise) arid lips and tasted
in night’s desolation almost
sweet.
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Here’s a rather silly, but I hope fun, poem for Hannah’s desert challenge on With Real Toads
Since initially posting, I inadvertently un-posted, so I am posting again.
ManicDDaily 
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