Waiter Notes

Table four,
in the corner to the right.

Gazpacho, extra basil,
and salty conversation
rolled over marinated lips.

Main courses are red sandalettes
slipped off, delicate feet tip-toeing
around a hairy ankle, nudging a sock
down and down, and fingers weaved
across cutlery and folded napkins.

Slow cuisine, to melt bite sized on
anticipating tongues already
salivating for dessert,

to suck distilled pressure from
still sauteing life, where heat meets
exuberant spice, skipping past taste
to aim for direct reaction.

Too fast now, too close too ripe,
she clamps her tender thighs,
and stills her breath with yet more wine.
Fingers untangle for a while, to grip
a glass or table edge, four hands
clutching straws for control, four lungs
clutching for oxygen, basil, bread,
any new drug to still the high.
It's not yet time, not yet time.

Two macchiatos sipped
in giggles and sighs, a check
shakily signed, a king size tip
and a hasty goodbye,

Table four, in the corner
to the right,

empty glasses, still warm seats,
and red sandalettes
forgotten below and behind.