Fuckbuddies

Last night Shane, with laughter and relief,
said, "I think I am getting better at this."
In the blistered night, in laden downy sleep
I dream of love, of loving, of being loved
like the dream of wandering the halls of elementary school.

I wake suddenly to a breaking window, the wind,
and my buddy's crumpled sleep, hands gnarled,
sweaty, muttering, clawing me to safety.

On the phone with Shane,
"I'm just not the kind of guy who says
I got to get some pussy, tho I like that too."
I laugh and say, "I gotta get some dick, I am
that kind."

In doorways and alleys, he invents.
We gave up talking about art or politics or anything.
Stainless steel under my nails and eye to eye
with the faucet come back, shame, come.
The coup de grace, upside down seeing the I,
the raw burned parts steaming the smith's water.

In the morning with Shane it doesn't really matter,
playing it safe, we praise each others
prowess, make oblique compliments
that wouldn't be taken too personally.

See, I know what color, what ice cream,
what shirt size, where the scars come from.