Fucking perversely, whoever she was,
close to home. Each noon the splintered windscreen
on your camper van fogged up. True, the flaws
in this affair were that you had to clean
the shag carpet each time; stench of vodka
and sperm and rocking Volkswagens don’t fool
people, even with Three Dog Night’s, “Mama
told me not to cum,” cranked high. Middle school
flashbacks, even now, are of your panic
at the thought of getting caught. “I can’t stop,”
you’d gag, my balls pressed fat against your chin.
We all cry out; even an ex-hippy chick
getting licked clean, acid in each teardrop,
heartache that you kept calling a love-in.