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To Him For Whom She Waits

22 Mar

The brownie is just an excuse.

Chocolate drizzling over

the scent of freedom,

the elaborate study required of

the menu,

framed against the evening bay.

My legs are bare and ripe for insects,

but the heart hides its sachharine

under soft-cottoned blue.

I’m anxiously pacing my stillness.

Gathering rope to lasso time.

And the nuts they crumble grudgingly,

permitting me a moment longer.

I never miss Bollywood, but the stellar MS

reminds me to be thankful

B-pop is days away.

A spoon waits placidly.

While someone on a bus inhales

sandalwood and fuel fumes

so he may spray-paint his heart

for me.

Hedges nod affably.

The waiters less so.

Oh look, here’s the bill

but a triangle of sweetness

my rich, brittle excuse,

it watches as my fingers

don’t stop.

A bald baby clutches mud

to the growling of her

father and the roar of surf.

It might take a blue-cottoned

girl with a green croc notebook

to tell him

that often,

it’s all we’re left with.

There approaches the

waiter again.

“One chocolate brownie,”

I say,

my first order for the evening.