the French prostitute abandons her post
and crosses the plaza
while adjusting her cap

she sits at the fountain’s edge
and blinks steadily
onto the occasional sparks
of the occasionally pellucid water

“Floods of light,” she enjoins, bored:
“Well up in the shade,
be reproduced to your limits.”

the protocols of Saints.
treacherous feelings.
I know you forgive me.
I don’t think you’re bad. (just a young woman and already giving out handjobs)

A joint stool chuckles
grabbing the hole between us

smells set out for new domains.
she has learned to manage her fury;
I have learned to manage my heartache.

and arranged sideways for the visitors
furry undulations shimmer through the grass.

(You’ll love it!
she had inhaled deeply --
future’s offer
of a reprieve
in my sweetie’s eyes.)

- Elmore Snoody