From my insomniac’s terrace I smoked
a Camel and spit the taste out below,
near the trestle. The first and last time.
I had laughed at you with lust on your 30th
birthday, that summer dress whooshing
up from an El Niño breeze. A visor
on your head, an iris between those
hands the color of coconut milk. Face
reddened like an embarrassed leopard’s,
you told me I needed to shave over a washstand
to scatter the man inside me. At that moment
an osprey flew over the runnel, clouds twisted
over the bay, and Haydn played on the turntable.
You called me a fool, grabbed the cigarette,
inhaling and nibbling my ear to ask
if I knew anything about the equinox.
David Spicer has had poems in Mad Swirl, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, The American Poetry Review, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and elsewhere, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.