tagNon-Erotic PoetryIn Japanese: Kokuhaku

In Japanese: Kokuhaku


Raked ceilings, white walls,
and black lacquer tables
with cloth napkins. It all
feels fancy, too rich, but I'm still
here people watching, watching me.

I've never seen such well-dressed,
beautifully groomed women as in Tokyo.

In some fashion, I've passed the test
wearing Armani, last summer's
Coeur d'Alene tan and a
Rembrandt movie star smile,
really a D-ister in disguise.

Kozue, high-glamour eats,
is where I meet an
impeccably coiffed dolly,
tottering on impossible high heels.
I seat her with a lusty growl,
her reply a girly, flirty giggle
sounding better than the jazz.

We sit in our own cloud nine
made up of her amber perfume
with lots of sake on the rocks
and my broken Japanese
and her broken English;
we find each other alluring.

I can taste excitement in the ice
crunching between teeth,
making a cool drink of promise
for a hot evening yet to come.

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