Michael Cluff- A Poem

Clouds

The dirty white
mid-sixties Plymouth sedan
stops halfway across
Hoover Dam,

you are with me
but we can't get out

and then a dark varnished box
about four feet taller
than the red upholstered car
hugging its doors
encloses us

a sluice like miners used
at Sutter's Creek,
I think it was,

and you start undoing
my tie.

Water begins to flow faster
at the bottom of the reservoir
and I smile
truly
for a bit
wide and unbrooked

the perfect dimple
in the silk fabric
now residing
in my
newly shaven
chin.