Rug Burn Bliss

I’ve come to love those splotches of crusty rusty red

Smeared across prickly plane of the battered basement rug.

Burgundy stain I told my dad was barbecue sauce…

Or was it buffalo? Hot and sticky,

Spicy spill by messy eaters,

Messy lovers not caring for a napkin,

Only for the burn

Of sweaty skin to splintery carpet,

Tons of tiny cat claws,

Grinding, itching, scraping away

At the intertwined flesh of two. 

Leaving little between bone

And scratchy shag, leaving

Crimson kisses for the floor,

Pooling puddles of heat,

And a gash under every curled toe.