In Line at Starbucks
Star of India, pale Elephant
Man, lanky spirit of my
inner pocket, do not go
out that door. You came
in Tokyo. I know your
hotel (what room number?).
Star of Georgia Plantation,
darker in spirit than my
left-hand neighbor, Shang
hai Seventeen, enumerator
of my inner waistband, do
NOT go out that door. I
came here for coffee but
tuck my spirit between
your sock and ankle. Oh
you’re wearing sandals?
Come over here. I have
a couch for a hotel and
am not yet clear-headed,
Pale Singapore, Pale
Australasia. Mind my
natty rims. Parch my
fevered whims. Just
watch me smoke one min
ute more esteeméd Star
of Uzbekistan, Stan of
my Oliver, man of my
momentary dream. I
double espresso dare
you.
