by Lawrence J. J. Leonard
All those years of baskets and filters and chipped mugs and spilled sugar stirs
and caramel rings around many a printed report, get pushed aside by a blown out candle’s retort.
Dawn is breaking and I am the audience of a familiar gesture.
“It’s instant,” she says in a sultry matter-of-fact purr.
In no way can I argue with her style or her calming generosity.
“Sure,” I smile.
The kettle sputters, bubbles, then hits the high C as she grabs her robe while gliding past me.
Seconds seem like minutes while anticipation peaks and I embrace the smell of her clean hair and glowing cheeks.
So, this is fine china?
Just like that butler uses on TV.
My attention is torn.
The curve of her body?
The bubbling oily black lava resurrected in a wrestling
match between lowly brown crystals and boiling water in a porcelain vessel?
Our eyes meet through the steam coming off the rich mellow potion simulating the smoldering inside of me that longs to spoon her devotion.
She gives the most casual of winks and asks with a stare that causes my psyche to give a moaning cry. It is more than I can bear.
Copyright © 1960-2016 Lawrence J. J. Leonard All rights reserved