The Woman in the Coffee House by John Grey
Your tidy rows of fringe
threaten the look of moonlight,
leave little room for anything
approaching thought.
Legendary. Tempestuous.
Queen of thundering artifice.
You are proclamations of every kind.
A sultry strophe, somnolent and deep.
Hormone hailstones. Sacrificial vixen.
I wish I knew your kind.
The heat. The rogue bandana.
That clarion of a tongue.
The chiaroscuro of your shadows.
I take up a crusty cup of coffee,
brush it against my lips,
dwell in the boredom of what I paid for.
You move through,
gesticulating sex’s vociferate splendor
with no more than a hair toss,
a wind off a volcano.
I choose you. Then I take another sip.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
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