A lemon slice, broken and hung over a glass's edge,
trails its single-shot stomachs tangled along a thin veil
clinging with condensation. Piggyback, the lemon
rides up to my eyes. The tiny ticks are electric
and practically talking - kicking over their chairs
and sliding into the splits on the splintered floor
with breath so bightingly hot my eyes water from staring.
You are in the bath the powder the restroom
doing none of these, but tasting the time you wait
in front the mirror saving for dessert my look
at you, hold my hands to your eyelids and teeth
and ears and unbelieving look, when you sway the plastic plants
between booths swinging your hips around the bus boy bending
over an abandoned table wild-ragging around a two dollar tip
and then sweet-sing your fingers through your hair nary a strand in order
intentionally begging my fare (gladly paid) to terry until each one parted.
I put the glass down, teary and breathing heavy
to face up to the waiter - "I'm in love."
"Oh," he lips lamely and nods dropping my change on the table
and I grab the slice of lemon.
YOU ARE READING
Poem Sunday
PoetryYep. It's Sunday. Have a poem. I am foremost not a poet, but it was an early love. And it is a form of expression that deserves as much love as it can get.
