October
By Joshua Michael Stewart

He hears Nat King Cole's

cigarette-after-sex

voice everywhere he goes.

All day, he’s thought of nothing

but the weathered birdhouse

in the backyard, the black ‘O’

of its opening deeper

than it was in spring.

Raking leaves, he's back

sitting between her legs

as she runs a yellow comb

through his wet hair.

He leans on his rake. The sky's

soft as smoke. A wind tucks

under his collar and his body tingles. 

He closes his eyes and there she is:

cinnamon and nutmeg in the air.