Maybe it’s because it’s five o’clock

and I’ve been sitting still all day.

Maybe it’s the coffee and the sweet roll.

Maybe it’s the door pried open in me,

reading Anne Sexton and Barbara Farabee.

But when you come in

my senses are open wide,

and as we talk

smiles keep taking over my face.

I am alert to the color of your hair,

the tilt of your hips,

the swell of your nipples,

the sweeping curve of your back as you stand

not quite reading the books of poetry

spread over the table.

There is a huge hole in your shorts

and the bandanna around your neck

looks as playful as I feel.

I want to say something,

to show how I see you,

to expose this little rush

of late afternoon sunshine.

Shall I tell you that long ago

I wrote you a poem

grown from a similar smile?

Or shall I say,

more simply,

that at five o’clock of a still afternoon

on coffee and sweet roll

and Anne Sexton and Barbara Farabee

my body buzzes because you are here

hip tilted

eyes open wide

smiling as we talk

while my mind skis down your back

and wonders where all the words have gone.