In Bed.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

time is a straight line
where are the curves? that contour of a woman
the hills of the dessert sands
it is too boring you say and there is this
desire to quit and simply be gone somewhere
even in places that you cannot name

you need a guitar to strum this hours and make it
dance
the flamenco, what is the color of the heart of this
lively dance
the tapping feet and the clapping hands
and the swaying of the long red skirt
and the showing of a map of desire in one of those
thighs?

what is it really that we are missing?
shall we perhaps take this chance of having a dance
on the floor and then in

bed.