A Touch of Calypso Red
Today, I
thought that I’d give you
a little peek at my poetry volume.
Here’s the
poem that gave it its name.
Calypso Red
She silently sashays
from the rumpled bed,
little rivers running
sticky down her legs.
Her feet caress the carpet,
pianissimo, the sound of
rain so shy it's not yet
saying hello to the roof.
She holds her breath
a moment, just to listen
to him breathe. And
just because she can,
she inhales his scent,
that tangy musk she'd
pick out even if
the laundry cart
were filled with T-shirts
from a dozen different
men.
She marvels at how quickly
he succumbed to sleep
when she's electrified.
She shuts the bathroom door
Just so, easing it
against the frame
with infinite care,
holding the knob
in her hand and
rotating it ever so gently
until she feels the tongue
slip into waiting lips
and linger there.
From the well of silence,
she pulls up a bucket
of light, so she can
admire her glossy toenails,
the ones he lacquered in
calypso red while
humming Unchained Melody
because he'd forgotten
some of the words.
She recalls his lips,
plumped by tiny bites
of concentration,
his eyes lowered like
a sultry sun caressing
the horizon as he
brushed thin lines
of polished poetry
along each perfect nail.
Not for the first time,
and not for the last,
she feels
supple fingers
of pleasure
dancing
Comments