Quick Release

There's dust gathering on the bed frame

Interspaced with gaps left by careless and infrequent touches

A chair piled high with jackets worn but once

or crumpled on a cold floor

Sheets collect long hair on the left side

unwashed dishes pile on the right

Tucked in the shadows rests a guitar

aching to be tuned

A long neck for fingers to stroke

while the strings quiver and thrum

from the plucking of strong sure fingers

But the glossy covers of the worn paperbacks

decorated with well-ripped bodices

Laugh at the naive temporary song

A quick release

Only to return to the dusty

cold sheets