Mo’ Mots

Lollygagging gets
pushed aside,
as business
creeps
through the door
and toe-tappers
measure out the line
next to garishly
lipsticked faces
waiting to clamp
Honeyplum Glow yappers
around ice cream cones.
The hoodied youths mug
their stubbornness as
feet become inches
away from the frosted
glass. “Almost
there,” a thirty
minute mantra.

There, I hear
your lope, with hips asway
and leather sneakers
marking out the beat,
likely staccatoed
by the too-tight
leg of your skinny jeans.
Your keys jingle-jangle
on each pop of the pelvis
like the owner of a cat
calling out, “Here,
kitty kitty” with the ring
of a bell as milk is set
down in a porcelain saucer,
ready to be lapped up
by a powder puff
of whiskers and fur.

Ambling down the hall,
then soles brushing the carpet
by my door, you call
me with a knock.

Bed so cold with absence
of you, and the only scent
I can smell is my own,
years of cuddling close
to a waning pillow
in hopes of dreaming of the day
when you would appear.

Now you’re here,
and yet not this night.
The twin, crowded, packed when we sardine in,
is an ocean of stained blue discarded sheets,
and all I want
is dawn’s spoon-crooked spine
and your morning breath on mine.

I can just imagine
the missed connection:  “we
said you were cute
at the mezzanine.
couple, 40s, plz reply.”
Probably sent from
an iPhone, the husband’s
breath still slightly sweet
from the Caucasian, drink
of the Dude.

Propositioned,
I figure the wife
thought she could get an in,
welcome me into their Egyptian cotton kink
in their San Francisco loft
with parking no less.
Art, strongly
vaginal, on the walls and eco-friendly
lube at the bedside table. Still on the
waiting list for a Smart Car, though.

Instead, I mumbled
something about my boyfriend, grasping
his hand–not that they wouldn’t
mind an extra pair. Turning,
I swiveled my eyes
to the stage, where flat-
chested girls slipped out
of bra tops, and felt more
comfortable not having to make
conversation.