He called to me this morning,
with a low growl, really,
a voice that sounded like it came from the back of his throat.
I looked out the window,
and saw his dark skin, glistening in the morning light.
Come play! he said. Slap your feet against my back!
It will be good to feel your weight,
since its been so long.
He has been clothed, I thought,
and wondered when his back had last seen the light of day.
Was it two weeks?
I couldn't remember and tried to count the days,
which piled up in my mind and made me look away.
And because I felt the need to release my energy,
I pulled on my shoes, tied up my hair,
and gave into his seductive purr.
But the moment my shoes first hit the long stretch of darkness,
I knew he'd only been playing,
toying with me like a cat would a mouse.
For his skin was not clear, but mottled.
The stripes of onyx I thought to be wet with morning dew
were really pieces of ice,
strategically placed so that
if I did not run carefully,
I'd fall into his trap, into his arms, onto my back.
Dazed and confused I would lay there,
listening to his booming laughter,
a clear I got you in his call,
wondering when spring and a clear running path
would be part of my day again.
Instead, I punched my fist into the cool, damp, air,
my middle finger rising in defiance at his surprised face,
and made my way up the road.
Slowly, but confidently, I ran.