Joanne Merriam

THE HITCH IN YR GETALONG

Saturday casts you like a lure into my bed;
our mouths open and close.

The parts of your body I deserve least
are your hands, which move like chenille feels.

At some point we stop touching.
Some point later than we should.

After, you say I'm worried about the wrong things,
a gift I can't stop myself opening.

The night still on your lips goodbye,
I half expect to find money at my bedside.