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
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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