Awe shucks--there's Tater walking like
a duck on a highwire to Apple Bees.
Taken by the hand--dressed like an
unembodied expression, thrown together
not to be naked.
Layers notwithstanding.
Tater was holding his hand, not sure if it
was her own.
Tater was making a go of it--leaving a
slug's salty death on his palm.
Tater was getting so wet her inner thighs
glazed one another.
Conversation was natural enough to feel
like a muted reprieve, intimating loftier themes.
Comments on random homes were not
about worth, but more about auras which
translated to aesthetical judgements.
As Tater & he tempered the material world thru their cross-read dynamic.
Seated at a particular window-booth, as
per his eccentric placement for food ingestion.
A booth lit so bright, one could perceive
the emotions of dust motes.
Tater promptly excused herself to the
bathroom--where she admittedly cleaned
him from between her legs.
Tater took to the booth again, considerately propping herself up.
Then the pendant lamps followed her
mood like a bird of prey across the sun,
when it was directed outside the window
by her gaze.
As Tater offered that it was the day her
ex's mother passed.
He couldn't help feeling that it was put out there, as if a nun ripped through grace to get to appetizers.