Quality Hill

Wednesday 

All eyes, cicada,
whispering leaves, branches reaching to
the very tips
of fingers 
to one another, 
pulled back 
by the wind, lover, oh lover.

Awkwardly musing,
she laughs like a champagne cork to his every slanted sense 
of humor, 
loud and gushing, 
under thumb,
shocking, slipping-
sinking in, all bubbles
like city lights on a hill
in the unfamiliar dark
even fireworks she thinks,
why not?
Skies the limit
to imagination.

Muzzled morning,
two fisted hot and cold,
parting in the alley way
with dirty jokes
"you owe me one..." she laughs 
walks past puddles, he tells her to "go buy some shoes lady..." as he
heads into the bar, 
beer soaked, worn down wood, music 
switched on,
and the slow-cook warming up the oil for the 
fries.