Foghorn

They'd found a place,
down at the water's edge
two flights with balcony,
the walls off white
except the tiny loo,
which had been done
in huckleberry blue.

The stove had seen
much better days,
warped lower grill
and crisp fried crumbs
of unknown origin.
Touched up a tad
by sprayed 'Appliance White',
encapsulating two
well maybe three
brown furry legs,
forever young,
embalmed by haste
and memories of taste.

They'd searched
and gave thumbs down
to newer flats,
no dogs or other pets
and let the lawyer read
the finer print
and listen to the sounds
of number two
go down the porcelain,
the trumpet farts
and Friday nights
when springs would sing
and vulgar moans
spread through the place,
like open thighs
and busy tongues
the muffled cry
suggesting anal joy,
they'd wanted privacy,
their place
a kitchen's warmth
and room for 'it',
king size it was,
for roaming
and for playing
in the steamy nights.
The shower was,
ticked off as fine,
almost too big,
they'd use the space
for private water games,
a touch of liquid gold
would rain
and lift its drooping head
to seek
and swim against the stream,
remain inside
amidst
the freshly fallen snow,
which she received
engorged with thanks
and added to,
twas warm
and silky moist,
and flowed
then covered limbs
and tongues,
flushed cheeks
and curious eyes
in new surprise.

They'd wake,
still holding on
to nighttime dreams,
unspoken words
and salivary touch,
taste from within,
shared morning lips
foghorn, the sound
of sailing ships.

by Herbert Nehrlich

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