We sail smooth

runners iced and swelled,

in teas of black

with Chinese talk-talk.



Lay your hands on me,

such smoothness tickles;

my fuzz and temptations -

you feel.



It’s our room on

Boulevard Saint-Germain

where hush-hush is

our language of

blushed romance

and foreign lip-lock.



Les femmes de la noir -

tenez ma queue et tordez.



We watch the sky

and count the drops and

swirl our fingers over cups

and sculptured hair.



Saturday afternoons on

Boulevard Saint-Germain.


2012 Barry Comer