Poem for Thursday, August 23, 2012

Man of Velleity

At some bar--

his daydreams ride the smoke upwards, stick
to the carcinogens and evaporate.

the finger of the woman three seats down
skates along the rim of a whiskey sour.

her finger could be more majestic, it points
towards his chest and curls backwards.

he is neither drunk nor courageous but wonders
how she smells in the morning.

how does she smell in the morning, is the sun
kind to her bare olive skin.

can they exchange words about Rimbaud
when the yawning ceases.

if she sprays water next to the sink, will it
irk him or make her more endearing.

does she have a sob story about her people
falling under painted swords.

can she speak French, will she comment
that his wardrobe is tres passé.

her finger, that serpent now writhing,
renders him immobile.

she glances down her glass where the ice
distorts her facial features.

his eyes peripherally stroke her thighs,
his wallet is out on the counter.

the door opens into afternoon heat, but
he halts on the threshold and turns.

how does she smell in the morning, the
words, the yawns, the sink.