~TERESE SVOBODA~

OCTOPUS

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After cueing, he stretches TV height,
runs a couple of Fahrenheit-
hot-hormoned, tricep-bicep-and-vein-bulging
arms your ass-wise, while in full
sostenuto, lays out each syllable
of your name. Then all his pockets fill.

You eye the beer he bought you,
even lean in to watch him voodoo
the geometry, the physics, the smack
of cue-to-green, fingers sliding off-rack,
the sudden weight of his thumbs hooked
to your jean belt, his cigarette sucked

so his Hi heats your ear, the way his hand
arcs around to powder the tip damned,
destined to drop to your nipple,
waist, crotch, as if will
is nothing you can accuse him of, glancing
shark-like at a green ball, the scene

so early in your rights-radar you sip
at the beer, you lean back to gossip
with the ham-thighed matron handing out nuts
(his?) who might be married to him. Buttercup?
he calls her, Hit me again. And for once
she does, educationally, a straight-on punch.

 

© by Terese Svoboda