April Poem-A-Day 17: The Tongue of St. Sister Ray

The Tongue of St. Sister Ray

A droning electric guitar
soundtracks our grope
in a dark corner booth,
burgundy leatherette under us.
(Ian Curtis should begin stuttering soon.)

I never caught your name
so I call you Sister Ray.

We are twin swales, fogbound
as we share our damp,
subsonic bass riffs.

You pat my cheek
as we part,
call me “sweet”
as smoke cloaks you
in shadow.

Come back, Sister Ray:
we can have another
really good time next Friday.

© 2009, php