Grammar Shy

I remember riding your indigo
to the train station, that you
tasted like sea-salt on fresh snow
between my teeth and that you manuevered
the publicity so well no one knew
what you were about.

I must have been magenta, I must have
tasted like curry and gin
with my hands wedged into the folds
of the cushions; keeping company with strangers
for a half-smile and whisky.

I devoured my discomfort
with corned-beef hash. I spooned you from an egg cup
against my eager tongue and you were too wet
but I kept going and your shell gave you up
to my longing.

I got pinned against the long grey of the platform
getting off the train and you let me go
like that; just like that, right there and the smoke
as it lifted from the stack to the sky
was frozen in suggestion and it watched you depart
with practiced omniscience.

And I laid on the platform,
and I stared at the stars.

 (c) 2007 Dorothy J. Burk