I'm tired of writing this poem
but your
black-stockinged
white-sneakered self
compels me.
I'm doing this for you, after all.
you wouldn't exist
without these words
which I breathe
into your delicious mouth
with my ale-drenched lips
while you clutch
and squirm
and sway
to the rhythm
of my random verse.
I drink deeply
of the smile
I've painted for you.
your rush hour perfume trail
propels me
into an orbit
above the skyscraper sky.
the taste of your fear
intoxicates me
and at length
I drop my pen
and watch you
slowly
dissolve
into the next daydream.
Paul David Mena
10 December, 1996
Boston, MA
