does this poem need more?...

Game On
after Jack Vettriano

I arch back against
the lightpost, vertical
metal creases, bulb dimming. He
is kissing me—his tongue
a pack of plush tobacco, his hands
anything but ash.

The occasional car
passes (three a.m., nearly
empty road) and I sneak
a look over his shoulder,
smirk at the turning
heads of passengers, drivers.

I am unashamed of my fingers
grinding the stubble
of his chin into ashes, his
hands sparking embers
on my thighs.