When he laughs his tongue
splits his lips, spider lines
compressed like the accordion
serenading the the diners;
the veins across his bow-nose
beacon his joy of fine malts.
Her joy is sedate, her oatmeal
hands clasped to the linen
where she hides her smile,
her beige eyes tuned to his face;
I watch her water-stretched heel
stroke along the curve of his calf.
I carve designs on the tablecloth
with the steel of my knife, quiet
amid the clatter. As I wait
for your late arrival I refuel
on cheap house white and the sight
of the waiter's tight groin.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Eating Out (redraft)
A redraft of an earlier love poem thingy. This one is now cooked to my requirements, and ready to serve. Enjoy!