The Way it Tastes

Intent lines his stomach. Before them,
two steaks await the cutting.
Like ants, they move into the burrows
of observation -
Neither wants to disclose
or seal lips to what later
may be tasted as motion
in darkness. The city blows
its way between women. He
thinks they all smell different, but
the taste –
they taste the same. Somewhere
music passes through
him. He chews his salad and
wonders if cars are upside down
like this? She always looks faraway
and sips with caution.
He feels her legs shift, change
direction. Their heels touch.
The steaks stay uneaten, brown
bruises on moss-colored porcelain.
At home, he showers. She is singing
softly in the background.
Her hair is on the soap and in
the drain. He smells like Brazil –
a quiet, soapy hunger.
In the kitchen,
she feeds
the dogs the remains
of dinner.