This Will Lead to Sex

This playing with the napkins
This twisting of your ring, my watch
This humming of a machine somewhere
Of a great machine

You look out the window
And bring my attention
To a building
That isn't there anymore

I order you another drink
Because you seem on edge

Or maybe that's just you

In our heads, there's jazz
But in reality
There's just falling plates
In the restaurant kitchen

Somebody getting fired
Or so we imagine

You cross your legs
And your skin is brown from sunlight
Real and fluorescent

I smoke a cigarette
In my mind
And tip a hat I'm not wearing

You wear a different color lipstick
Than the one you have on

I order us a dessert in French
And the waiter is charmed by me

You fancy me a renegade
I call you insatiable

Under the table
You smooth down your dress
And I kick off my shoes

And the carpeting that isn't there
Feels good under my toes

Or at least it would
If it was there
And if I weren't wearing socks
And if the feeling of carpeting under my toes
Didn't remind me of when I was a child
And I stepped on a thumb tack
In my living room

One from my sister's science project
On sharp
And dull

You speak and I hear a whisper
I talk and you hear poetry

We get up and dance around
Knowing each step
Anticipating each move

Casting off our clothes
Right there in the restaurant
While the unhappy couples
Celebrating unhappy anniversaries
Wave their napkins in the air
As if they're at a Spanish wedding

Everything we do
Everything we've done
From the moment we were born
Until now
Has lead to this

To this knowing
This certainty
That one day
There would be sex

All the ring-twisting
And poetry-whispering
And leg-crossing

All this will lead to sex

But until it does

We'll sip our water
Chew our food
And let our fantasies dance
Right by our table