What was in those whites,
small gap in his smile,
lank calf, lope gait,
soft skin, firm grip,
Richmond boy with bleached tufts
on a tall head of laughter?

Doral's or the cheapest, whatever works.
His place had no A/C but there's bunnies and cats,
Maria's pretty things tied up in teepee stacks, forlorn.

What was in those painter's hands that touched mine
in the darkening coolness of my space
eyes that smile their face,
long cheek bones and stubble
ancient Chucks strut, guided by Warhol?

His animal scent, my musk
petal mouth and my parted lips
so cool his skin, but what under them
could boil like my flesh tangled with his over sheets
as he smiles sweetly as the car door closes
and we veer apart again?

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