Making Arrangements

My left breast vibrates insistently, midday
a Morse code: ._. . ._ _.. . _ _.. …_ _ _ _ .._ … (rendezvous)

there is no silly sentiment in the urgency of your texts
no imagined fantasy of candlelight and rekindled romances.
Whisper her: “I miss you’s…’”
Growl I: “Fuck Me’s…”

Guttural and moaning are the only ways I recognize your voice. Save
the subtlety for her; reserve the hotel room with cash for me.

Have no expectations of coherent conversations
or afterglow spooning; no hopes for exhaling
“I love you’s…”

And I’ll quiet my snickers as you lie her beguiling “sweet dreams”
and scream when you balance me quivering a secret you can’t keep.