Tunnel of Love

This is a Rye poem that ironically didn’t make it into my new chapbook, Rye & I. Enjoy!

Tunnel of Love

Rye begins to rise

as he sees me sit

shoes in hand and

before I can

slip one on

his beating tail, white-tipped,

like a conductor’s baton

has quickly whipped

up a crescendo frenzy

to which he slinks 

languorously

like Tchaikovsky himself

out of his couch curl

and onto the floor

and between my legs

pressing a cold nose

to my ankle.

He slithers under my legs

on his belly

like a commando 

licking my hands

as I try to tie the laces.

Flipping over, he 

exposes his belly.

My furtive knotting

notwithstanding,

I rub.