She plucked a pansy
from the window
spitting it out
when she tasted
the sidewalk smoke.
"You can eat them.
They're supposed
to be sweet
but these aren't."
Two bottles of white
a bookshelf inspection
and an eighty-point win
in Scrabble
is all it takes
to make two strangers
into fornicators.
"A little further.
Hold it there,"
she gasps, scratching brick.
The sun decides to rise
three hours later.
It's bad when you can't
say her last name
although she's naked
beside you.
"Will you walk me
to your door?"
she asks
shooting low.
Twist the locks.
Change the sheets.
Turn off the ringer
and go back to sleep
as a hangover with legs
squints her way home.
I've seen the face of love.
It's buried in my pillow
twice a week.
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