smiling in some dark blue swing dress she
makes me hypomanic with that look.
it ain’t a leer, but it could be cousin to a glare;
it’s gazing season and she grazes me in tilted periphery;
some hair, her hair, is tied in a tight knot up top
and it splays out in angles. top notch, I’d say.
light beams about the ‘do like light likes to do.
low lamps make me see spots as she move in
and about, across thresholds grabbing a drink,
gabbing, crossing the room to give Brad his fucking Moscato.
it’s such a nice party, I like the decorations
and the music, and everyone is so fashionable.
oh, and here comes her head swivel across the room
and we lock an eye or two and her mouth is ajar, laughing,
and that top knot gets pulled loose with dishwater
hair spilling about.
with a shake and a wayward hand she
helps it fall over, across her face, letting it touch some shoulder;
and I get stuck in her present tense,
to live there and wonder and suck down fucking Moscato.