Its Sunday.
His hands shake slightly, almost imperceptibly
As he grips the tongs
Fumbling over charred fish fingers

Neck bent over in performative stoop
He smiles, cracks a joke
That no one is willing to indulge
More than a faint pull of a smile

There is a cliché wrench at the heart
When he offers up a peace treaty of onion rings
And we maintain our front line
Face stony, eyes squinting in polite apology

An attempt at communication
Barely there
I urge with quiet eyes that while I may not be an ally,
I refuse to become the enemy.

I think perhaps we will spend the rest of our Weekly Sundays
In this warm weather
Waging battles of steadfastness and humility and onion rings in our heads.

Behind the screen, her dress shifts
Allowing meticulously placed sequins to glitter
Over smooth, lithe legs

******* compacted tightly to the chest
In a tight hug
Like the cold, soft clasp of a mother hands

Hair bounces vertically
Sprouting like yellow cress
In all the designated areas

Her imperfect movement conjure images of an animal;
A new-born
That men across great swathes of the country will appreciate
As though a painting in a museum

A painting that’s lifeless eyes will follow them
And only them
Across the room

Their pupils flitting, dilating, observing in abject arousal
To have been chosen is not a perhaps not a right
But an expectation

For this woman with arms like rubber and the joy of an uninhibited child
The carelessness of an *** past its prime
Drawn forward by sheened eyes

And youthful spring.
I draw my eyes away.