it was my concentrated attention
there, in that clean
well-lighted place in as many as 10
and as few as 2
tight incandescent foci
upon the braided cords of your muscle
across your hardly-cotton-covered skin
and down to bones and spine,
around closing time, as you leaned in
to me, that felt indiscreet.
and the window; did you study well?
that you are sublimely beautiful did not help.
whatever the truth,
each man who saw me, there,
concentrated in my hands on you,
in a booth, thought he knew what
would happen next, and wanted
to be me for it, and would have been
content as me for just those witnessed
moments, and wondered why him?
although they could see my intent labor.
of each woman's thoughts i imagine
envy of that cited attribute
shouldered aside by envy of those foci
moving, and further, imagine
after work, at home,
every partnered person who saw,
gave or demanded touch.