Montana Motel

[and the radio cowboy sings]

Come lay your body down close next to mine.

Sure, yes I’m sure, your husband won’t mind.

We’re in Montana, and he’s in Japan.

So lay your body down. Lay it close next to mine.

Just turn your lamp off, and close down the blinds.

If he came home to find us entwined,

Your husband’s a good man, he’d understand.

So lay your body down. Lay it close next to mine.

(asleep beneath the bower of  other tresses,

I do miss the slow flower of your eyes.

But I’ll water I guess the garden of her yeses

till I rest in the hollow of your thighs:

Is what we learn worth the loss of what we forget?)

Come lay your body down close next to mine.

Sure, yes I’m sure, your husband won’t mind.                                                                             

Sure, yes I’m sure, your husband won’t mind.

Sure, yes I’m sure. . . .  Sure, yes I’m sure. . .  .

(though I taste the desserts of another’s mess,

I still miss the silvered service of your limbs.

I must suppress the appetite of these whims

till again I can dine at the table of your breasts.

Who else turns his face from the light to stare at shadows?                                                         

Who abandons the concert to attend to echoes?)

Come lie here beside me, pass down the wine.

Sure I am that your husband won’t mind:

Needs in Montana can’t wait for Japan.

So lay your body down,

Lay your body down, body down. Body next to mine.  . . . .

--Duane Vorhees