Tiramisú

The tiny duffle ruffled slightly.  
It sat between her legs,
across the hall

as I rolled my eyes up each one,
stopping at those shorts,
folded once or twice

and above all that delicious middle,
tight and hot and there, yes
above all that,

was a face that searched me out
from the corners of its eyes;
let me speak but said nothing.

I thought I’d give her everything:
a bottle of ale,
lily bouquet,

three or four poems
I wrote for someone else.
But I could have loved her, too.

She must have known it in those seconds;
the body talks and if I had the tongue
I’d show her an inspired expression.

The bag did another shuffle
and pug popped its head out.
I thought to pet it but she saw me
coming & picked it up, blinked confusedly

her burnt apple hair
jangled in front of me
I froze & turned

and ran out to the nearest bush,
vomited into the base of it
to the taste of whisky.

It was high noon
and the tower bells rang
for every day I couldn’t cut it.