To scratch

or not to scratch:

Fingers yearn to dig in.

Every night seems

like New Years Eve

under the ashen light

of Venus.

Women pretend

nonchalance, but,

behind closed doors,

with words unsaid,

desire rules

with an ironclad

will of its own.

Arms unfold, pants drop,

lingerie armor untangles,

as a husband has his way

with someone else’s wife

on a the top of a desk.

The animal in man unleashes:

Red wine runs down their clothes

in a river that cannot be crossed.

Sucking tongues grunt into heat.

A man emerges from a shuddering car,

smiling ear to ear like any creature

with a tail between it’s legs.