Oil

        Strange how our skins' oil clings.
        The slightest touch leaves traces in patterns unique
        To the way one person wears her skin.
                How she has creased, and wrinkled, and split
                This soft suit of armor
                To her stresses, her smiles, her scars.

        When I see a street puddle, lazy with colors,
        I remember oil and water, the animal defense.
        Furless human creatures, slippery with sweat and grease,
                Cannot be held down easily.
                They cannot be pinned and forced 
                Into a prison of another's making.

        And each time I see the outline left,
        Of lips against glass, sticky oils
        Holding tiny pieces of city filth in the shape of a kiss,
                I think of oil and water.  I think of you.

                                        Kelly J. Cooper
                                        5/4/92
        				(For Christine M. Whalen)
					All rights reserved