Once again the rooster’s crows beat you
to the gate. I watch you from a corner as you wobble
towards this house
I maintain to be home for your
returns: three-course meals; hot baths; a
warm bed you’ve avoided since you’ve
discovered the convenience of the sofa.
You reek of alcohol and cheap perfume
from another visit to the red light district.
I stand patiently at my corner,
waiting. My shadow dances —
under the flickering
light — in your presence. (Do you even notice?)
You concentrate on your stagger and
as you near my corner, you stop
to lean — soft and warm — against my
stiff cold body. And
again, how it is to glow
like the vibrant strobes in your red city of lights.
Your breath reminds me of ripe chicos, of
an appealing bitter sweetness.
I move closer to your face.
But before I could taste the liquor from your
lips, you open your mouth, let me taste
the leftovers of what you had for
this is included in UP Quill’s literary folio, “Sitting Amok” — 13th volume — under the pseudonym, “Eva de Matta”.