Portland in August

Night has gently fallen,

the soft certitude of her silky way

met by sultry air, a slow-rising tease

of heat still lingering in the city’s bones,

that glib sidewalk emanation of the one known as Saturday;

mingling, they make a slight breeze

that seeks us in the hotel, in the room where we lay;

Horns, shouts, car doors slamming,

the carefree banter of gathering friends

in the street below are fireflies of sound

glimmering on a slender strand stretching

into the night loosely wound

around a distant dance beat pulsing

through the window’s opening;

Here in the room, soft light

winks on cupboards of the old kitchenette,

the AC purring huskily, contentedly,

the old frig hums a modest reply;

suspended between dreams, I sleep so lightly

I could be the sheet, cool and shy,

that’s resting like night itself upon your thigh.

Jeffrey R. Richardson is a retired journalist, as well as an author and poet. Born and raised in southern California, he spent 35 years in Alaska and now lives in Central Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Explorations, The Raven, California Quarterly, The Avocet, Last Stanza Poetry Review, and Abandoned Mine.