brunch
You want me to go where,
to Mexico?
Flipping through a leather book
one hundred percent man-made
I work that week, I lie,
and design a casual pose.
Sipping mimosas, my
eyes mesmerized
travel his brow
to sculpture of lips

to cobblestone entryway.
I fantasize a private board in
sidewalk schoolgirl chalk,
close to the corridor, where it blurts
this man is attached
and I write fifty lines of the cost.
Pastel powder colors cling to
a long black dress.
Red Herring
Special of the Day
fish under glass
displayed for my delight

Sitting squirming restless in my chair
the white cotton towel shifts
(which way is the sea?)
from one fingertip to the next
as if answers
(toss this one back)
were embossed on one side.
Excuse me, valet?
Do you still have my keys?

Mia Moore