One Night We Angered The Sun

In the dark by the car we stood,
under stars at 4 am. She pressed me
to spend the night, pinned me to the door.
I told her there was really no night left to spend,
but wouldn't it be fun to wake up the sun?

We made love loudly in a bed with a wooden frame
until the lazy sun roared out another morning.
I think the sun was angry --
it shot hostile spikes of light through the blinds.
I apologized for the clamor but calmly explained to him
that it's a sin for a man to refuse a woman's love.
He argued back in harsh yellow tones,
his saffron fingers slapping my face through the slats.
I could only squint and sigh and quickly close the curtains.

The sun sure is stubborn,
refusing to accept the necessities
of properly loving a woman,
spewing severe light, spoiling our dark fun.