Too Darn Hot

Why sort the doubletalk from the innuendo?
They're both lyrical. Two secrets
linger between us, though one is a lie

I'll tell to keep the other company, but still
I can't make you disappear with ease—
no penny beneath my palm, no token to stitch

inside the seam of tonight's star-striped suit.
Silvery and besotted, the mayflies swat us
for our bad behavior—the heat's a strap,

the moon its buckle. I can't bother to pour you
a glass of whiskey straight from a bottle cast
in glass so green even money sickens

with envy—you might enjoy it. I've given up
drinking even the deloveliest wine. What's left,
beside the banter and the boredom, a script

so stale there's no telling what it means to anyone?
Risks should whistle with possibility, but why woo
a man I don't like enough even to hum? I'd prefer

a Cole Porter tune—something a little more upright,
a little more grand. Nothing now but a yawn for you,
one last thank you—thank you—and good night.

Copyright © 2010 Sarah Perrier All rights reserved
from Barn Owl Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission