Morning

his desk was overflowing
displaced files
heaving stacks of mail
the product of
an overworked fax machine
and
everywhere pink pages
of unanswered messages
what to do with
all these papers
now that her heady scent
was everywhere?

There was barely room
for one martini glass
deep blue with three olives
on a crystal stick

He had never known
such a powerful thirst
words like
slake and slay
danced in his head
confusing him
mocking his efforts
to offer himself
to her

It was quite clear
she did not need his help
she had climbed
atop his desk
and
here she sat
last night's
laughing
tender
darling
little
whore
shredding the satin ribbons
of her dancing shoes
and
twirling the beads of
amber and topaz
that decorated her chest

Perhaps
if he squinted
he might see her better
was she fair or dark?
a sleek cap of auburn hair
and green green eyes

He thought her lovely
a pose of something distant
like a wish...

She had not existed before
the first martini
he drank the third martini
from her shoe
draining every precious drop of gin
while chanting her name
over and over
whispering reverently the song of
his new mantra.

What must he look like so early
on this
the morning of
his longest night?

He said her name
again and again.
it was a sing-song tonic
that made him cry out

He must
find a way to keep her
all to himself
he could write his name
across her thigh
scribble a bit of a heart
behind her knee
cover her in an avalanche of
pink papers
or
keep her hidden
beneath his desk

Now he wonders
what shall he do
how should he begin
one more time?