the sleek throat of a flower on the sky tilting
at the exact moment of twilight and you
love what he says, nothing at all to laugh at. And
who will drink a bottle of really cheap
pink champagne with you, pops it open,
pours into wine glasses. Like who owns
champagne flutes anyway? Listen to millions
of tiny bubble gum pops, so sparky pink
it is now your favorite color. And this guy
offers a toast: good fortune and good luck,
two things you have desperately been needing
for a very long time. Ordinary stuff
is on your mind like what color sheets
are on the bed, did I clean the bathroom,
will he have sex with me all night long?
You want a guy who thinks in galazies. He likes
to flirt. Sure, you remember
sitting alone at a kitchen table, sipping
vodka tonics, as evening twists into a hazy blue,
and you do not believe in it anymore. How
you want this guy, whoever he is,
to be a big pink jewel you can tuck into bed,
tuck into bed. A little tingle buzzes up to your knees,
a sign you better stop drinking. You look
at him and say how foolish but I do feel a tickle.
You want to know that one bottle is too much, how
he leans back in your favorite yellow chair with forties pillows,
says everything avbout you is pink. And it is the absolute
correct thing to say, so you work it, flirt a little harder.
So he buys Korbel when you prefer Moet? You
tell him -I am so glad you noticed I am pink, your entire body
a dizzy intensity of fizzing wine, his mouth, it must
be ready, you know it, surely as sweetly pink as yours.