Stevie Wayne Bishop and the Midnight Run

When did I run?
As the horse jumped the stable,
nightfall-cloaked and proudly prancing
in the Perseid storm.

Stevie Wayne was calling bluffs
and falling over painted tables,
lidded pupils sweeping briskly
over unmarried fingers,
testing tan-line promises
long since forgotten
though delivered on passionate knees.

Landing in sequence,
he was like a rancid factory,
overtly insulting,
verbal tapestry unfolding
on a crusty conveyor belt
hoisting his desires
on a fabric made filthy
by his conquests of the moment,
which on this specific evening
had included smears of you.

You blinked me aside
but the drunkard didn’t notice,
as he danced with you, distinctly.
Brilliant hazels, blaring tympani,
you walked from within,
high-heeled hoof-prints pressing deeply
on my sense of control.

Iceberg embers, guided missiles --
I was drawn by your intensity,
immersed in fire-splashing eyes
and epinephrine waves.
Attention-grabber,
boldly blatant,
you advanced by pirouette,
so undivided by plurality
the moon might fall to earth.

I felt a rush of satisfaction
as you gave your full attention
but I felt a new calamity
as Stevie launched a left.
He grazed my face and tersely tumbled,
ego bruised and booze-embittered.
In that moment,
it occurred to me that
feeling good was good enough for me.

Tossing thoughts of any prospects,
I ate crow and bravely bolted,
opportunist, more than lover --
also Stevie's only neighbor --
living fourteen miles from Nowhere
on a rarely-ever traveled
dark and dusty country road.