The mechanic turns my insides
into spaghetti, sans the sauce.
sitting in the bathtub I soap-up
hischalk white arms, arms filled
with a gang of tattoos.
The aroma of sweat and smoke is
tonic water floating steadily into my
mouth and I lap it up like champagne
served from a flute, his flute, if you will
Amazing how much of a mess two slim
people can make in a tub, like silly kids
playing Titanic on a lazy friday night.