I was mile high like Denver
when he called me from Boulder. So older
than I. Didn't known he was a Picasso,
painting me in cherries jubilee. And so,

I melted inside of
his phone. With the juices still
running I was shunning echoes of
the woman calling to him, mother of

all his kids. The one he wouldn’t
leave me for. Those cherries have
pits. But I've learned how to spit them
out. Lit with the brandy and tasting

like candy he flambéed me. But he
also kept a little French Suzette in his
closet, for the nights he preferred a dish
a little more light.