Night Coffee (4)

The sky inside is mauve, Baby. I hear the xylophone player
breaking out in sad beats beyond the wall. He sounds like a
puma in heat. The hallways reverb with echoes like purpling
moans, like the moans of a man begging “Don’t leave me!”
down around my calves, head in my thighs, tongue arcing
for my bush. Desire is a fog in my heart, as if I’ve fallen head
first into a culvert. His is the kind of love that inspires exhaustion.
I want to pick up the phone and dial your number, Baby. Instead,
          I put the java pot on the front burner and brew
          enough fogcutter to wake me up forever.