Ben Ladouceur

You were long-limbed, wrung out
like a desert simile:
It was barren like the desert
It was warm like desert sand

   I will add up all the numbers of
   your telephone number.
   I will learn to roll joints
   and we can smoke them together.

You were driving your van, I was learning
how many types of shame
there are and what I
could get away with and what I couldn't.

With the cold of my two hands
beneath your shirt, I could have frozen you
but you were barren like the desert,
warm like desert sand.

I have never learned to drive
or forgotten the euphony, of engines and
of your telephone number, its eight two eight
four nine two eight.