Mr. Nowhere

Mr. Nowhere

On the 17th coffee date with the 17th Mr. Not Now Not Ever,
my mind strays.

His ho-hum voice is white noise,
a signal to my imagination that it's time to play again.
As long as I nod and smile at the right times,
I can totally multi-task.

And I imagine you:
the full cascade of your appreciation when you see me,
the calm warmth of your eyes as you study my face,
a tingling incantation below my belly button,
the shape of your hand offered across the table,
heat washing my breast like a sudden dessert breeze.

I half-listen to Mr. 17 talk and long for your story,
the effervescence of your voice,
rhapsodic phrases I could eat like apples.

He talks about himself as I unveil you,
robbing you of the protection of your clothes.
And you oblige with tremors of unmistakable desire
you cave in a such a way that it is clear
you have been straining and aching,
waiting for the chance to let go.

As I stand and politely shake hands again,
I gorge on your succulent contours,
my dark burgundy desire churning
before the screen goes dark
knowing you are both
Mr. Nowhere.