I wrote a Mardi Gras poem last year, so I figured I’d give it a shot again…
No need to remove our masks,
since the night carries mysteries
in its inner pockets like knives and
photos of compromising positions.
Like the one she’s in right now,
a wondrous part of her unmasked:
her gown is finally pushed up —
this sumptuous gown that titillated
me all evening, with its enviable ability
to hug her curves, a teasing smirk
by showing off skin here and there,
just enough to tempt me
into wanting more and more.
Finally I get to feel the crimson gown
lift and slide, clutched my eager hands,
this soft dress the color of blood
like that stampeding in me to my center,
hardening even more
as I sink into her, not bothering
either to remove my mask
or my tuxedo in our great haste.
She moans at my arrival of heat,
her moans are more a celebration
than the party revelers
on the floor below us,
laughing and talking loudly,
down the wide curving staircase
that we ascended in our journey
to find this bedroom tucked
away from the tipsy crowd
for the privacy of our lust.
Her moans are more jubilation
than the yells on the street
outside, the parade float patrons
calling out bargains of beads
for flashes of the drunken watchers
dancing on the sidewalks.
We dance our own Mardi Gras exuberance,
the thrill of plunging into her,
her moans a free verse jazz,
as she lays upon this bed,
in this unfamiliar room,
in this extravagant mansion,
on this intoxicating night.