Crossroads

in the city, it's hard work finding
a crossroads-
the right mix of magic
and midnight desolation.
my friend from New Orleans,
John Sinclair told me how;
never mind where it is.
when the time was right,
i sat on a pair of plastic milk crates
next to a dead fire hydrant,
pretended to work on a piece.
didn't hear her walk up,
didn't ask her name
didn't have to.
she said 'read me something
about being in love, and being alone'.
i started, and she opened her throat,
poured music over the words.
tear-stained siren song.
stung my eyes, burned a hole
in my chest.
she held my head, pressed my ear
to her stomach
but i kept going till the words ran out
and i started over
and the music....
(god, her hands were warm)
the music...
(on my neck, wet like tongues)
the music..
our voices mated, fused,
faded to whispers,
stopped.
we slowly untangled.
she strolled off into the night
heels tapping,
my fingerprints on her legs
my face wet from her song.
with each step the city intruded,
filled this vacuum with noise and stench
until it wasn't my corner anymore.
it was hard work finding this crossroads
but i got a cab, moved on.
never mind where it was.