Friday, May 21, 2010

sugar lips

"what can I get for you, sugar lips?"
her flirty query casually cut through
a cluttered friday-almost-evening
at a bar overlooking houston street.

she was greenwich village stunning:
impossibly tall with a chestnut mane
that helped conceal her backless top
and big, scary blue eyes that never blink.

she didn't need to call me "sugar lips,"
even if they pout like james dean's,
underinflated a few p.s.i. shy of perfect,
since my honest bride never called me that.

while I let it slide, it was unnecessary;
with all her bending and stretching for beers,
she was well on her way to a great tip anyway;
she just moved in for the kill too quick,

like interrupting someone asking for your number
with a kiss, catching them open-mouthed like a
fish in a barrel, taking the fun out of the hunt
of this dark wood, smoke-free forest of alphabet city.

I ordered a "day-old" beer, laid out an extra buck
and watched her move on to "sweetheart" down the bar,
then "honeybaby" a few stools further, she the
robotic amazon warrior queen for a day.

standing out like she did on an island like manhattan,
enough to keep men three-deep and drinking deeper,
I'm left with the memory of her pet name, but not
her face -- only the scars she hid from me.

perhaps if she offered an outstretched hand,
and not her long limbs and supple insecurities
I could stop being "sugar lips"
and she could start being "herself."


(c)Tom Shachez Prunier               2008
published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI
Mindworm Publishing, Chesapeake, VA

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