My hair smells like you--
Old Spice and popcorn smudged
lips.  Hold the butter.
I want grease dripping
from your palms, a salt
sea of foamy yellow.  We
reject kernels bob along
unpopped, burnt, steamed to bursting
refused the right to blossom.

The neighbors have a noisy truck
spitting exhaust onto my rear
window. Gray. Hazy. Ugly
as the reason you're covered
in glitter.  You taste like gin
and ginger, orange tea and cold
chai latte, notebook paper
in a dark coffeehouse.
The elves are holding hands
but your hand is on my *** and
this movie's boring--wood
pannelling in a split-level apartment
above your father's bathtub.

Your mother wouldn't like me.
She's a ***** anyway.  You tell me
she can't cook because she can't
subtract.  But you're no good
at math either, lovely boy. Double
your handprints on my ***.
Curl your toes to the three-four swirl of my hips.