Next Time by E. Doyle-Gillespie
copyright 2000
Next time we°re together,
if it°s okay,
I want to tie you up.
Silk scarves, maybe,
or my old school tie.
Wrists crossed.
Scraping the bed post with your new manicure from Angie°s.
I want to tie you up.
I°ll move my mouth on the
smooth swell of your belly,
your neck,
and the deep honey brine of your thighs.
The next time we°re together,
I°ll bathe you and have you tell
me, again, about the sixties and
the woman who was your first lover,
perfume you and recall the boy
my age who covered you with his body
at the crack of dawn in a Georgetown brownstone.
We°ll eat Indian food -
curries and pan panoor in a
place that is tight and hot and filled
with sitar blues.
Mocha waitresses will bring
chai and rice,
as a blue skinned Krishna consoles
the archer prince just above
a chalk board menu and the latest
hardware calendar.
Mocha waitresses with thick currant lips will pull back their hair,
and you will ask if I want to make love
to them. Ask if I fancy
dark nipples and full, brown hips.
And as I walk you home,
let me press you - all lilac
and curry spice - against the wrought-iron
lamp post across from The Top of the World Cafe.
Press you there,
and sway you there
until last calls
and the wet streets
guide us home.