Treasure Island

Derrick Thompson


Cleaning Up His Mess


His deep voice beckoned my back to my room
To complete a task I had done before.
But now I was to clean up his mess
As if wiping up his spilled milk.

The warm air filled of musk
I was directed to the fold.
The creamy liquid coating folds I knew well
His large hand, palming my head like a basketball,
Pushed me in to clean his mess.

The briny taste filling my mouth and scortching my throat.
I worked until he was satisfied.
But my labors gave her none of the old pleasure
And the walled echoed with their mocking laugh.

Submitted: Thursday, November 07, 2013
Edited: Thursday, November 07, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

A continuation of the evening in Havana.

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