Flannel Shirt

She drives four
traffic-filled hours,
sporadically giving the bird
to those who even
so much as inch
toward her side of the road—
just to see a man that doesn’t even belong to her.
Hairs begin to rise on her arms,
and a trickle of sweat rolls between her breasts
hidden underneath
her button-down grey flannel shirt.

A ring of the doorbell, then four quick knocks.
His lean outline appears
behind the translucent glass door.
Absent-mindedly she fluffs her hair
and licks her dry, nude lips.
The corners of his mouth curl upward
as he opens the door and reaches for her vase-like hips.
He holds her close,
as though if he loosened his grip,
she’d fly away
like a gentle honey bee
in constant search of a nectar source.

Finally
alone.

An apple-blossom flush floods her cheeks.
Buttons are easy to undue,
just an index finger and thumb are needed.
The other hand is used to gingerly cradle her face,
touching her as if she was a monarch butterfly,
and any residue from a human hand would harm her flight.
When foreheads angled downward meet,
the connection ignites every nerve in existence.
Heat blazes through her veins like an accidental cigarette fire
though miles of dry brush.
Any concerns were thrown on the floor with the rest of her clothing.