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Maybe it's because it's five o'clock
and I've been sitting still all day.
Maybe it's the coffee and the sweet roll.
Maybe it's the door pried open in me,
reading Anne Sexton and Barbara Farabee.
But when you come in
my senses are open wide,
and as we talk
smiles keep taking over my face.
I am alert to the color of your hair,
the tilt of your hips,
the swell of your nipples,
the sweeping curve of your back as you stand
not quite reading the books of poetry
spread over the table.
There is a huge hole in your shorts
and the bandanna around your neck
looks as playful as I feel.
I want to say something,
to show how I see you,
to expose this little rush
of late afternoon sunshine.
Shall I tell you that long ago
I wrote you a poem
grown from a similar smile?
Or shall I say,
more simply,
that at five o'clock of a still afternoon
on coffee and sweet roll
and Anne Sexton and Barbara Farabee
my body buzzes because you are here
hip tilted
eyes open wide
smiling as we talk
while my mind skis down your back
and wonders where all the words have gone.
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