Ode to Cleveland

Where I learned about lust,
that sweet body heat,
that river of lava
flesh longs to drown in.
In Cleveland, I tell you,
in cars with no heaters,
on sleeping porches with no screens,
in Novembers and Aprils,
in living rooms with no curtains,
on the backs of sofas.

Yes, in Cleveland, in twenty below,
abandoned by even the sun,
where we doled out red Cribari
in dentists’ paper cups,
at parties in houses
where pipes froze
and basements flooded.
Cleveland,
where the only hot thing
was lust.