I watch your slender fingers crack creamy
crescent’s spine, shiny smooth-filed nails of thumb
and forefinger slip out white strip. Free me
of wonder, love. You read, lift sugared crumb
to your tongue, slide back, smile like a model
shooting a cosmetic spot, eyes blue lake
at sunrise. You stay silent. Why not tell
what your future holds? What’s lot’s psychic take
on life after General Tso and green
tea? Share if this brief fate concerns us two.
I list queries with my gaze. Now you lean
toward me, surrender cool destiny’s cue.
Two red-letter typed lines crimp my lips and brow:
Never tell romantic what he wants to know.
Roger Armbrust
September 17, 2009
