at Key West

I’ve invited the Murphy’s over later

for cocktails and I’m trying to choose

a dress, going up and down stairs.

The glass chandelier trembles

in a sudden hot gust off the ocean.

On a circuit back up

you grab my thigh from behind

and I snap,

“Not now!”

Immediately regretting it

as you stump away,

off to drink, I suppose.

Upstairs I slump in front

of the armoire

and fold to the bed,

the white chenille,

vainly brushing my hand

against the swell of my breasts,

my belly,

closing my eyes,

once again

to curl close to the soft,

sweet mat of your hair,

to kiss the tea-green light

of your eyes.