Tim is in Tucson

Last night, after the bar,
I waited in my car while she paid the babysitter.

In her bedroom, she opened a window,
a bottle of beer,
said the neighbors couldn’t see or hear and lit a cigarette.

I slipped off my shoes.
She unbuttoned her blouse,
let it fall to the floor.

Our summer bodies moved margin to margin-
the narrative was unruptured.

We stared more than spoke.
We kissed more than smoked.
Her little boy slept in the next room.

I left before sunrise, before her son woke up.
But before I disappeared
into a slit of pre-dawn darkness,

she whispered; Tim is in Tucson
all week.

In an East Colfax Motel Room

The city fills my mouth
while the night sweats and
the room expires.

Sitting on the bed’s edge
I lean forward. She slithers
out of jeans and into my slide show.

My eyes
roam her body like a tour
through my favorite
city.

Her cigarette
fingers penetrate my mouth.

We kiss hard.
We kiss dry. Nothing
and everything washes
over me like bleach.

A crime is in progress.

Sirens are fading
in the distance.

Curtis Pierce is president of the Poetry Society of Colorado and co-editor of the organization’s forthcoming centennial anthology. He is a graduate of Regis University and works as an analyst for the federal government. He writes from Denver, Colorado, where he snuggles with his wife, short-haired tabby, and cowboy corgi.