Monday, April 9, 2012
Last Call with a Showgirl Concubine [Sonnet]
In shapeless lands of remedy and sin
A waiter pours a voluntary drink.
A ginger whiskey glass of ice and gin
And soon my lover pauses not to think.
She grips and stains the rim; a lovely kiss
And gently slides her wedding band away.
She smiles from the corner of her lips
With deviance that I could never say.
Our eyes collide a final time before
She claws me with her lightly tinted voice
“How would you like to walk me to my floor?”
I swooned her “Love, there is no better choice.”
She bit her lip, I wished to bite it to.
A concubine, a wife; my number two.