Ode to Who Ever

She moved with the drama of
baroque expressions
and flavored the sweat
on her skin
with suggestions of spice.

A drop of the Mediterranean salt,
and dash of mint
if I had to guess.

There was no room for me
on any of her fingers
but I managed to find
a space between her thighs
to wrap around instead.

The people next door banged
on the wall.
Her sofa was made of blue denim.
The clock on her nightstand
ran slow.
I drank too much that night.
I can’t remember her name
nor the color of her eyes.

DQ 4/19/06