Mistress Mine

Come to me mine, my mistress,
in the early hours’ pre-day pleasure;
the Indian motel clerk with tossled hair
and somnambulant grin, smell of curry
and the rice crispy bars he displays
with the thinly brewed coffee in plastic,
dark and medium roast depicted
by milk chocolate or unsweetened cocoa
colored beans on the mini cups’ sealed
aluminum foil covering, slowly and
sullenly swaps a key for my hundred.

In the lunch time hour, I come to you
in your bed, while others no wiser for
not knowing as they wend through the
river of their days at school, in traffic,
at work, to whisper in your ear what a
great fuck my mistress is and ever she
is thus, in her leather stripes and boots
lace tongue and slippery warm fingers
that rifle my hair, trace the topography,
thick, hard rubber muscles of my back
labored strong on clay courts in my day.

On late Friday afternoon, I call you to me;
come lie with me and hold my slumber
in yours, in your touch as we bask
in the one-ply sheets of sweat and soap
inhaling cleaner fluid scented polish
and the wafting heat of our skin and breath,
a still life of absolution and post passion
slightly swaying bed of our beating chests
as I sink into pillows and you eye ceilings
waiting for the pulsing to subside so that
we can fall into spooned rhythm of sleep.

Nights I send you one word, a number,
a question mark or a letter you know,
my hot queen at the flash of a moment,
the ready response to my steady call
peppered in night and day fantasies of
owning you, possessing every morsel
of your mind for my own amusement,
making you my doll and my caged cunt
waiting, wanting, wishing for my return
and no one can see you, enjoy your
beauty, sex, or mind–for you are mine.