Train Ride
by Ann Howells

The car was hot, and so was he,
tan and muscled, with a butt
that would bounce a quarter.

Afternoon moved slowly, and so did he,
languid, sensuously graceful, with never
any wasted motion.

The trip stretched out, and so did he,
a cool drink of water, crossing his boots
and tipping his Stetson to cover his eyes.

He may have dreamed, and so did I,
rough kisses, calloused hands,
pressure of a hard, lean body.

But, all seats were taken, and so was he.
A smug little redhead clung to his arm,
possessively, the entire trip.

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