Southern comfort was there on tap

and while her husband was at work

we shared the usual prevarication,

the evening and the feelings

began to stir, an open invitation.

 

In the tiny upstairs room

her walls began to open up

a honeydew, a silky cup.

My tongue was like a questing snail,

out of its shell

a horny tale.

 

The main course followed

Southern comfort on tap,

bright gold and sweet

like rising sap

     and her husband playing with a band

his tenor saxophone gold and tanned,

his tongue and mouth as dry as wheat

and melodies rising in the heat.