Jazz pulsed,
permeated the room,
melted it out of focus,
unimportant, unaware,
banter drifting into unintelligible
tapping of cowbell and snare.
The flute shooting blonde lava,
bass thumping in my loins -
the candles,
your lips and eyes,
quivered across the table
as the shadows soothed soft
cleavage,
and hair stroked with molten honey
caressed your cheeks,
oozed lightly onto your shoulders.
We sipped martinis
with pointed tongues.
The waiter, arms folded,
patiently and to the beat
tapping his right forefinger
against his left forearm
couldn’t ask us to order,
wouldn’t interrupt.
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