Trickling some laughs and rippling steam,
allow my hands to palm the curve,
and smell my sense and shake the salt.
Ears and waves her boiler-room shy,
trust the touch; the experience of age.
Smell your sense and shake it hard.
Dance toes on scratch-grass roads, feel
the boil, touch the lip – don’t leave me alone.
Touch the sense and push it through.
Tap dance girls all smell the same.
Goofied smiles, such nervous sounds –
skin-squealed up like boards of steel.
Whine the wind for another tale.
Just some love for Summer, just
2010 Barry Comer