Strawberries

This foggy, chilly Thursday morning
I find myself hovering over black marble
Slicing-most meticulously, fresh strawberries
First the green tips and then into their plump, ruby middles.
Eyes focused, over and over again
Sneaking a bite: a burst of sweetness followed by the tiny popping of seeds.
I throw them two by two into a small ceramic bowl.

 

As I slice I look down onto my pale hands,
Observing their creaminess against the moist red berries
And from the exactness of holding the black paring knife
There is experience, purpose, and love.
I carefully place the bowl into her two little hands.
Her feet dance as she runs off.

 

I glance past the iridescent tiled wall-
Calm bay waters beneath foggy mist;

 

My thoughts
Immersed
In fresh strawberries.

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Vodka Up, With a Twist

Sitting at a bar
Peering at my reflection in the high gloss finish
Drifts of cigar smoke form distorted circles-
The beginning of early eve,
I wait patiently for her.

 

Right at the stroke of 5
Those soft eyes, and warm smile greet me
I order the usual, vodka up with a twist
She turns quickly, grasping a clear bottle
And gives it a long pour; her blue eyes glaze over

 

Then the music of ice against aluminum fills the air
Its finale-an icy pour with a small, lemon rind.
Another warm smile as she slides over my drink
And moves on to the man next to me, same presentation.

 

As I sip my elixir, my mind softening
I watch her slim body dash and twist over and over again
The rhythm, her hand’s precise movements, makes my insides pulse.
I imagine, only for a moment, her hands against me.

 

Ringing from my pocket distracts the fluidity of my thoughts.
I take one last swig, one last look, and lay my cash down.
Grabbing my briefcase I notice my reflection in the high gloss finish-
Hazy
In circles of grey smoke.