The Morning After

The Morning After
A tiny theater where tiny boys
Bounce off padded walls as they drink silver wine
From the tiny tin cups.
The people keep coming
Despite your nonexistent efforts to stop them
The women smell good
It’s the perfume
It works and they know it.
Those girls in black leather boots
That sparks the loins into action
You try to deny it
But no one believes your half hearted lies.
They keep walking up and down the aisle for whatever reason it is
That girls, or women, feel the need to keep moving.
Maybe it’s a desire to be seen, to be noticed
Or maybe they just need to move around
To expend that pent up energy.
When I looked into her eyes
I could tell she wasn’t who I thought she was
But it was okay she didn’t seem to care.
A story of teenage lust on prom night
in a rustic cabin at the end of a long dirt road
a lone hunter came along on that spring morning
And interrupted their moment of passion.
You can’t see clearly through the haze of smoke and alcohol
Nice boots, darling. I’m imagining what you would look like
Standing in the warm glow of a flickering candle light
Wearing nothing but those boots and a smirk of knowing desire.
“Where were you?’
“Sitting on the edge.”
“Just like always.”
“Right where I’m comfortable.”
You try to make your way
Through the maze of curtains and kittens
Without waking anyone
But those furry little pests
won’t let you go
And their raucous whining
Wakens the house
And you’re forced to explain your presence
And your urgent desire
To escape undetected
Before the sun comes up
On a foggy October morning
In a small town that could be anywhere but
Spain.