1.

    Painful as it is to admit, I like your shoes.
    The soft leather sheen soothes my rough
    exterior, eyelids. She said something
    like this; I can only imagine
    it stemmed from a deep-seated foot
    fetish. Beneath the table, her toes
    curled round my laces, unfastening me.
    In the room tension was thick
    like cake. The dinner theatre crowd
    poured in, men decked out in lavender
    suits, women wore sharkskin jackets.
    Her toe slid up my shin, I bristled
    like a porcupine, arched my back
    and purred. The giant squid stood
    center stage, backlit by a cityscape
    of tax forms and voter registration
    booths; the alphabet soup
    had been served. My sweet foot-fetishist
    talked, suspiciously, of foreign policy.
    It was all so very bleak.

    2.

    The raindrops fell like hammerhead
    sharks. In the envelopes, invitations
    requested our presence for all but two
    acts. Not wanting to overstay our welcome
    we measured through the dark of human
    revelation. She said, "It is not in our interest
    to remain here." And I thought how lovely
    are gardens this time of year-gladiolus
    and peonies, blue daze, wisteria, the petals
    like armed guards, ushering us into purifying
    cavernous thought: the momentum relaxes
    in spite of itself. Or, there are no seasons
    for the spies. These things pressed upon us,
    meaning, they were heavy but unintelligible.
    I spoke with words. She spoke with her toes,
    wiggling them in the soft grass. I nosed

    (no break)
    her ear. She tousled my giggle switch.
    The memory of it all blocks my nasal
    passages. Each horseman drew up flush
    with the window. From inside we heard
    the Greek chorus sing, what we thought
    was not confirmed in this story.

    3.

    Some weeks it just goes on. We root
    in the earth like lover moles, indignant
    to our skyscraper dreams. But now
    the agents nose their way into our coveted
    hole, unresting our dark oasis. The jig
    is up. We list our complaints. The committee
    defers. The executioner is arraigned.
    He toasts the emissary, glad tidings had by all.
    It was the focus of our session, the intended
    outcome, the planned regret, the imminent
    failure to arrive before the scene had been struck
    and all the actors' lines slipped down the drain
    into the street where children packed small jars
    into large crates marked Foreign Aid.

 Copyright © Tom Dvorske, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.