I’m the apple of your mother’s eye:
Bashful, painfully demure, the dainty-skirt
Chanteuse. Whose bluesy sigh,
Whose paper-craft, inefficient flirt
Wields a bossa nova? Besides a samba, astride
the ancient floorboard, peaberries ground under heel
stain the wood world-weary. On Sundays I confide
Only belting Astrud’s Aguas de Marco makes me feel
My voice, my piecemeal act, might merit applause.
Hot faucet’s mislabeled cold, & mum’s the word
In which case I won’t underline the clause
that states when I withdraw, unearthing the bird,
Or de-boning the worm, or debunking the myth
That I want any more than an intellect-fueled tryst.