It’s s’posed to be ironic
You drawled,
Over a pale green t-shirt
With the faded stain
Of the letter “T,”

That syrup-smooth tone
Even the bees recognized as sweet,
Buzzing around me as if
To catch what dripped out next.

Who would’ve thought *crawfish
Could make my stomach flip?
And could anything sound more exquisite
Than fishin’ **-wels and gaytah tay-els?

And when you paused,
For too long,
To catch your breath,
I held mine,
And prayed that you’d keep going.