Encounter at 4:00 A.M.

Adrian Slonaker

I twirl a twist of your coarse graying hair
while your cold calloused hands ascend,
then creep down
the contours of my spine.
You hold on,
as a hope-drained seafarer clutches the raft,
insulated from the whining wind outside
from those terrifying truths of the night,
those persistent pangs of pensiveness,
embracing my mole-speckled shoulders,
my face bathed in your brandy-soaked breath,
indulging in that elusive intimacy
as comfortable as a La-Z-Boy chair,
no worrying, no wincing
until daylight discovers me,
awakening me with a whisper,
taking you away with a scream.