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A hundred Sunday mornings
I heard her skinny heels clumping
on the driveway,
bringing The Times back to bed, and
a little piece of driveway grit,
to make the sheets interesting,
to the skin.

In the winter, those heels came
clumping back hard and quick, and
she brought that wonderful ass back cold,
and goosebumped and tight.
In the summer, the heels flowed
back easy and languid,
bringing that magic ass back to the bed
as damp and as loose as the
smell of night.

Yesterday I saw the dental hygienist,
and when her forearm brushed my chin,
it was a detached grazing of margins for her;
for me, an explosion of heels.

      — Craig Chattin