A Drink Called Dave

A drink called Dave

Canal Street,
Tuesday.

The LGBT bus
fans passengers;

boys high as flutes
compare shirts, hairstyles

The girls sullen, chew
cuds of gum

Lastly, me.
My lady-

I look to her
for directions

Bars starred with
sparks, bars timbered,
cavernous

Some aggressive,
shiny, others decked
like dungeons-

Anything goes.

I’m like a kid with
a train set-
I gasp in wonder.

My lady smiles.

Feral older men
eye younger ones,
tight and new

You see stories
as they happen-

eyes meet,
fingers clash
cheeks brush-

some
pure lust

others
true love-

who knows?

I hand her a rose-
musty, damp.

She smiles

It’s being with her
that matters- not

Barbie Sutra,
Darth Vader dildoes, or
a drink called Dave.

Mirrors wink,
capture our love.