THE FOXES

 

I am lounging inside of a spoon brim'd
full of spiced pumpkin bisque.      Here
it is safe to wax reminiscent, undisturbed
and taken back to those moments. 

A borrowed tea pot sat expectantly. 
Mug handles, fingered and balanced, 
& clinking. We didn't plan to met
inside the swirling smoke and steeping, 
but there we were               again.

A manchild, oblong and tedious. A tousled
demeanor with a mouth that fed me. We
poured and mixed, and sipped. Never space
for room between us, our desirings and our

fear that erupted as something so small. 
It was a fox of ourselves, a timid thing. &
we withdrew from it and were awe'd. Just
like one knew when the other was waiting, 
and just like the immediateness, it lapped
up milk on the landlord's saucer, that we
had poured. No longer cautioned back.

A drop of my soup rests in my mouth, 
savoured and missing. You. A lovelusted
friend, a fox, a cuppa. Wax reminiscent
along side, in this space, with myself.