Sunday, April 04, 2010

I wrote this poem years ago, but was never satisfied with the ending.

She’s Miss Sweet Potato Brown
 a steamy cocoa statuette
   with caramel-colored eyes
and fine tuned fingers.
And with pepper tongue twirling
   she sets whole rooms whirling
her black tresses swirling
 so devilishly dervish
and needlessly nervous
 though wordlessly
   wordlessly weird.
After kissing her
 I stumble into a drugstore
   and desperately undress all the chocolate bars.
Though she refuses all my flowers
 and will not hold my hand
   she sleeps with me in a heavy sweater
     almost frantically afraid of the cold.
And it’s not until morning light
 over raspberry tea, that I read
   in the lines around her smile
that she's parked in passion’s alley
 searched through many cans
and shivered in the shadows
 with moon-stained hands.
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