She gives her lips a cigarette.
Scented, unlit. Cool. Raw.
No fire, and no smoke,
there goes another bet.
I don't draw, she says,
still, it's a draw.
Two double rings hold glasses,
milk clouds in a cup,
the waiter's hand that sneaks
down behind the apron,
wet, hasty, to adjust the cocky
passenger, the impropriety signed up to
double punches cleavage set apart.
Yet nothing moves. Ever.
Except some time small change.
Devotion of degree. Distinction out of range.
I'm standing in the doorway
with snow on my side,
the other side was yours.
I'm keeping hours.
Words don't carry weight.
'LordblessmerAgnes'
The y precedes the ours,
the hors precedes the d'oeuvres.
21 февраля 2017 г.
Unlit
© Copyright: Андрей Тюков, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117022109423
Свидетельство о публикации №117022109423
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