After the Game

I sit on your bed, wait

while you shower off, admire

the gleam of baseball trophies,

T-ball, little league, softball,

raise their arms and wave stately, dedicated

and piles of unfolded laundry, spontaneous,

passionate explosions from the hamper.

A closet full of running shoes,

hesitant in the dark,

and baseball bats, rise stiffly against the wall,

ready to hit their next home run.

The squeak of your bed springs under my thighs, echo

the cheer of a full stadium and popcorn and waving foam hands,

and the posters of Derek Jeter, alluring behind his helmet

and the stereo, pulsing, rhythmic,

blood below the skin.

And the box of condoms, hidden

behind your comic book collection;

ribbed, lubricated, flavored.

Tell me you love me.