the click click of your wedge heeled boots
percuss the concrete in a rhythm he can’t
bop his head to. your high bun perches where
his too short arms cannot reach. he hangs
from the silver ring in your flared wide open
nostril swaying in the gentle exhales above
your frosted bumptious lips. to kiss those bumptious
lips again he would call like he promised, dedicate
a remix to you. call it ms. brown skin, my chestnut
queen on patchouli street. sample a south African
drum beat and hope it makes you think of Lagos
long enough to need to be held, cuddled, comforted
but not long
enough to put you on a flight back
home. the elongation of your vowels stroke his earlobes,
sends a shiver up to his elbow, a twitch in his flour dusted
trousers. he thinks his goods would be better with a
sweetener extracted
from your voice. if only he could tap into you.
