Five Reasons for Spending the Night at Bobby’s

1. He wanted Madden 09 for his birthday; I bought it for him…

…with the money grandma sent for Christmas, excited, front of a crowded big-screen TV, Bobby tank top and boxer shorts, me in black sweats, to sleep in, we both bare feet, we scores, we jumps, he slaps ass, NFL style, masculine, consoling me. I thought my stripped toes would confess my blue-fire orchid scream, I am only my spat fingers, and my patient red diamond abides.

2. A big snow-blast tonight...

…so I run to him, ahead of the cascade, ringing bells, I am black Santa Claus with the forty-ounce sack four filled with Old Gold, and Acapulco Gold smoke on the bed behind me. And Bobby’s landlord keeps the heat on high. Fire weed against walls, against butter, against black skin. I fall asleep in the middle, after booze from bottles, and talking all night about football, about boxing, about cars, and about girls. Bobby pulls off my pants and socks, he throws a huge sleeping bag over me and nods off across the room, crooked, in his favorite chair; talking to a lady-friend on the phone.

3. That funny clicking in my engine…

…in my drivers seat, Bobby is under hood twirling wires, wiping dipsticks off, smudged tattoo, dark brown skin spinning, crumpled paper pocket numbers, flying alley dark showers. He is shirtless and worried about who will be the Jets new quarterback. After the disco bump, after the h-bomb sneak, after the dim slippery; approaching a grey like a drip drinking bar.

4. Its Payday…

…and I’ve got the green tree grow. We are the royal leaving limousines, names.

I am the mirror. Bobby looks, smiles, and he tilts his head. Barstools ride and red wine glasses, dancing rooms filled and jumping, like children chasing ice cream trucks. Bobby has the sun (I thought the sunlight would tell him) and we become a ride, a drunken taxicab, a noon-brewed coffee cup, and a wet shower towel (Bobby bathes in pools of green daises.)

5. Because this is the day…

… for Bobby to open his windows. I am the purple blood bloom. A genie rose from the burning flower between us found Bobby giggling, found my resting face, “Warrior, Spear, Kingdom,” and we are on a hill above a rolling river, we become the water. We become peeled orange sections. Thank you for the wet mouth, the glass wine, or this black boy, the pulling dreds, (his toes his ankle) and soft cotton underpants, and I a calico alley cat in spike red shoes searching Bobby’s chest for a warm heartbeat.