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
In fresh strawberries.

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-
In circles of grey smoke.