Wild Thing

Marc Swan

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In the small room above the bird of paradise,
over the lawn sprinkler, birdbath, the dog
barking at the postman who never arrives,

she stays when she comes to the city.
It is in this tiny room we meet
when the good doctor is away,

when the good doctor has given me the key
we meet on the rose dust-colored throw
atop an old-fashioned oaken door-shaped bed

where I rediscover the mystery that lies
inside her slender thighs, between her legs,
in the soft milky skin of her breasts, taste

the sweetness of her breath, find sustenance
in this warm place. Through the open
window of this unassuming room, noises

of this teeming city arrive in full force
with the thick California heat of a fat sun,
with the cool wind of a new moon, never alone

these purveyors of harsh sound.
She must cross over roadways, travel city
streets, take a bus, a train, a motorcar along

a highway I've never seen to visit me
in our special room. I worry her safely
down these winding, nefarious roads, imagine

wild things she encounters on this long,
arduous trip, unsavory characters who imagine
the secret places only I, and the cameraman, know.

The 2River View, 2_3 (Spring 1998)