Rum and Coke

Her lines are silver grace.
Warm drunken breath disappears
Down inside a clunking boot
Into which follow purple tights and the too-
Exposed roundness of a toothsome thigh.

She climbs through the window
Putting her wobbly foot on the seat.
Her hand is hot
When she presses it down on my knee
Accidentally.

She continues her innocent parade
Across my lap:
Hands, knees, thighs, arms.
A low-cut blouse suddenly
Becomes lower as she leans
Across me to talk to
Someone else.

Breasts like mounds of whipped
Cream. Cherry on top.

Her voice is deep molasses brown
And moves about as heavily.
Her accent is thick like the cloudy
Cinnamon-hot air that surrounds her.

The wind fills the whole building
Rippling the curtains, shaking the stars.

I get up to move.

Reviews

[Beth]

why move?! She sounds delightful. Or maybe she will move with you... no?

This is a great piece - stunning visual, topped off by an excellent play of words - not rushed. One can taste the lust and reluctance of the writer.