the bashful smile, the singing one. coquettish and without qualm, a rock song
guitar wailing warm; grabbing the tab, offering to drive, coffee in mason
jars. little things to be shared, no one’s to carry. gestures
the quickest to the draw shooting for stary eyes, a glimpse of coy
you got me partner. kick the spurs from these boots, this wild
whistling winter around the corner might snow us in
but that wind howling smile, the bashful one rosing your cheeks,
coming up over the crochet like a campsite sunrise in east Oregon, boy is it warm.
if I could nap all day under it I would, tell you to take the day off and get back under the covers
but the car is heated up, the walkway cleared, the bed is tucked in and there is chameleon brew on our breath
Her peach fuzz lips have supple folds,
doughy like wrinkled maple
leafs, soft-faded near the end of autumn.
Her cherry blossom cheeks, smooth vanilla cream
spreads freckled by strawberry seeds;
she always dusts his after work dessert in powdered sugar,
fresh from the Maybelline jar across the counter.
His masonry scars are deep laced;
nature’s grout barely sustains
the leather-bound knuckles
that moan and then buckle when lifting the fork
pressed delicately into her shortcake.
Rust flakes from bent elbow and wrist
as his fist collapses to her waist,
settled with the crumbs of dried frosting
waiting, to be lifted and shook off;
colleague escapees of the dusty porcelain plate.
The evening sun settling against the horizon for the night
rolls over burnt coffee curls, and arrests his eyes.
Her supple peach lips glisten, expelling satisfaction’s intrinsic sigh.