The sun spills its oranges
into the avenues, rum and
honey gathering at our feet,
and we are drunk of it, this
young wanting, wild, our
mouths flowers spreading
open to join in another chorus.
When is it time to leave the party,
my lips go to ask but my throat
catches, pocketknife in the palms
of a curious child, I
am too old to pretend I don’t know
how balloons eventually sag
toward the floor, too young
not to want my forevers.
Thai iced tea on our breath
as you kiss me, we cut class
and pose on concrete blocks,
romance is rest and revelry,
and I stop in the street, struck
by the sun’s reach across
all this city, take my hand
and whisper, wet eyes,
let’s go home.
michael king 