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what does your sleeve feel like? i imagine it must be so warm. autumn flashes her teeth and you hide your arms under layers, so when i bare my vulnerabilities why do you not take the same care? wine tasting like all couples do this time of year except i’m five fingers short of holding your hand. you’re fawning over nuances lathering your tongue and i’ve got jesus christ and blood in my mouth and neither blesses me save the sunglasses secreting my eyes and a checklist of varietals into which we feign our interest as we have done nearly every day spent together. laugh it off, it’s okay, we’ll wash our hands the way we rinse our throats of grapes but i fear we are thinner than those cups keeping sparse water and my pant legs are still damp from eight seasons ago (when i started counting). within me there is a flesh so ripe and tender that you’ve allowed to sit atop the counter until the worm got to its core. i see only my face at the bottom of this glass, not your eyes i am void of or that fuzzy sweater i wish you’d rub me across to remind me i still shine.
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© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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'From My Front Steps,' 'Scotch and Scars' and 'A Distilled Spirit' poetry collections available in paperback and ebook on Amazon.
