Lust on a Bench

A clown is throwing trash away
around the corner from a kissing couple
whose cold fingers cling to each other
and fit like a flesh pangea,
and it will only be a time until
their saliva begins to crystallize
and their lips fuse together
like braced pre-teens
kissing in a closet
among the oldsters' smoky trench coats
while their friends stand outside
giggling and watching a stopclock;
when will they learn
that lust is not a fire itself
but needs a flame below it
like a kettle or a popcorn popper,
that the cold can seep in
and freeze the blood,
crack the veins
and the foundation, even,
that the clown has it right,
as his red wig bobs
and makeup comes off
on everything he touches,
as he places the discarded
in metal bins
like his actions are a panacea.