When he laughs his tongue splits
his lips, his eye-sides fold
like the accordion serenading
the hall; the veins across his nose
map out his joy of fine malts.
Her joy is steady, beige hands
around the linen where she hides
her smile, beige eyes fixed
on his; I can see her heel
stroking the curve of his calf.
I curve designs on the tablecloth
with the heel of my knife, quiet
amid the clatter. As I wait for your
late arrival I refuel on house white
and the sight of the waiter's groin.
Monday, September 04, 2006
I'm on a roll: another iffy first draft love poem to add to the bubbling pot ...