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