It was only a matter of twisting the doorknob…
of letting out a stream of freshened breath.

On the right, the bed- a pattern of laziness crosses
from floor to twisted top sheet…scuffed heels, pencil nubs,
forgotten coffee cups.
Evening punctuation lingers near the windowsill, and with
the breeze, a dampness comes.
In towel and stillness, she is expectant but soft,
soft but able to pour and rub and
pull sweet oil from knee to ankle.
Perfume fiddles itself  between breast and rib,
across lace and seams. 
For a moment, her sweat thinks of winter, then
it’s hand to lips…carefully lining the dainty peaks…
from lips to neckline…pausing to decide, chain
or cross… from neckline to waist…here it is, the
slow pull jerk of freeing zippered teeth from
a starched cotton fold…
and the skirt’s fullness is admired.

Tonight, tonight, tonight
she will go and laugh with the comfortable faces.
While she waits…when there is only water left to drink…
she will look up, asking the stars if they also found her dance pleasing.