Homage to My Waitress
Skinny girls in the grass
are sipping beer, at the pinnacle
of June, gazing down into autumn.
Supine on a blanket I bought in Santa Fe, a skinny one
pushes on me, as I push on her, to prove
love is natural. Everything is necessary,
and at higher dosages, deadly.
I join her on the green and yellow lawn,
the sounds are plowing through me--
skinny girls chirping in the grass,
latino radios as usual.
My image in a green pond: is this why she loves me?
because I have olives for eyes? I see her
emerging from larger, more cumbersome haunches.
She nuzzles me with interest.
Some electrical node hidden in her cheek
that stalls me. I'm so hungry.
She produces from somewhere a long red menu.