There has to be love somewhere
taking the shape of mundane fucking things-
a rusty doorknob,
a coat hanger,
a drop of rain bleeding into
the softness of a petal.

But for these men, it's beneath the outside stairs.
White paint from October, cracked
and weathered from the dust-storm season-
winds to carry societal tears to their feet.

His hand wraps around the other's neck-
calloused with worry for his children.
The crying.
The wiping.
The sleeping.
The waking.
The love children made by the love that society has
(not him)
for his marriage- for his wife
as she lies on their floral linens
fertile, and fucking the lush idea of her husband's
Levi's around his ankles, a puddle at his
feet.

Her lipstick tatoos itself to her lips,
each wrinkle filled with the illusion of ageless beauty-
red paint to protect her from the
strange man's saliva on her husband's lips.
And when he fucks her,
he moans.
Not because her lips are strong
or leave streaks of Chanel on his flesh whip-
not because.

He moans at the thought of the stranger-
at the affinity he has for forbidden fruits
and how it flows through him
like rain.

Beneath the staircase,
outside the house,
the screen door whines with the wind-
weeping at the love sickness that plagues
the walls of this home.
And her husband, he whispers-
softly sings the song of the plains into
the ear of his lover.

And as their lips touch,
a sea of zippers are undone,
symphonies of buttons unsnapped-
ripped from skin in frustration with each
other.
And as he bends over, he parts himself for the one
he loves.
Grabs the rusty doorknob,
on which his hat usually dangles.
Sighs.
Moans.
And cries as he's entered, wind howling
shoulders flexed- becoming one
with the sin he loves.