He’s an upright,
Tweed,

Shiny tassels on leather

Tapper.

His tongue salivates

Past his

Coffee

At the burlesque,

Burlap,

Brown bag

Sacker.

Her sweet

Braids are woven between

Beads;

Dreads breed

Into one long strand

Where “rats” read history.

His square spectacles slide

Towards tips where scents go seeking.

He magnifies;

His want drips for

Her chipped cinnamon

Fingernail polish

To sink into some fleshy

Part of him that would never

Understand her.

Her lined black eyes meet his;

She adjusts her blouse.

“Thank you, Starla…”

His pulse accelerates…

Wry is the melon of her mouth.

He adjusts his wedding ring.