She lacks a little lace on the top thigh, tipping a river of men
over the ripples in her stockings,
her temperature runs
like a truck engine, driven hard and fast through the night, as if to break her in,
feet flex into shoes that make calves solid as a man, stood naked before a young woman,
She hums quietly, a lurer's teasing pitch, a pitch she'd hum at at any
lips engorged, throbbing, bottom jutting,
of the edge of a glass
of something both quenching
There are slaves here, beautiful but baron,
bound to the night, to the society of it all.
She's a freshly sharpened axe, made for making wood suitable, sizeable,
she's inching in,
slinking across the floor, fingers through her cherry hair, her eyes, those look up from low eyes
the cat that has the cream.