Twice each week,
you arrive at my doorstep,
toting macaroons and masculinity.
I stir the instant coffee and light the bloblike beige candles with my Zippo.
With three fat pillows properly plumped—two for you, one for me,
we stretch out like haughty Russian Blue cats upon my bed,
exhaling the mundane mediocrities of the day,
swapping them for the magic of camaraderie, of dukh tovarishchesvtva,
swilling science and silliness from I Love Lucy along with our Sanka,
or speaking in silences inscrutable to the uninitiated.
Sometimes we go blank and blink at clouds foxtrotting past the moon;
sometimes you slam me against your armpit,
my nostrils nuzzling into a never-neverland of flesh, dark fur and Weleda Sage,
your gurgling grunt when I kiss your tricep
dispatching a polar chill to the platelets in my veins.
Definitions are discarded (this is not a dictionary), but Wednesday night and Saturday night
from nine-thirty until the one o’clock bus—and only then—
we iron out what we need.
Adrian Slonaker lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, USA, working as a copywriter and copy editor, with interests that include vegetarian cooking, Slavic languages, Victorian horror fiction, wrestling, and 1960s pop music. Adrian’s work has appeared in Better Than Starbucks, cc&d, and Dodging the Rain, and publication in Ginosko Literary Journal is forthcoming.