Spoony

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Of you
a vegetal urge
is blooming
like buds of fantasy
rooted in objects as tatty
as teenage chum tattoos
and half empty cups
of a plunging sea blue
bra

clipped replies are hanging
from artless edges
of a very
tight conversation
tongues
as if wearing spandex
are sliding on the legs
of even
unimaginative adjectives

damn
have I missed
such spoony awkwardness
or what!

when salad leaves are gone
and forks begin to scratch
balsamic patterns tart
on expectant china white
“Are you free tonight?”
asks the musculature of your tone
pushing through
the diminishing arms
of my attention span
I feel like that pony-tailed
friable girl
who fell from the sudden swerve
of her father’s Chevy silver
into the magnificence
of a banyan’s complete
and complicated
paws

levered inside his elbows
tattered and too little
with fear of random tragedy
and the first recognition of that thing
called death
globuling around big eyes
when asked if alright
all she could say was
“Yes.”