You’ll walk into a bar with friends,
and there he’ll be: Lust himself
and there he’ll be: Lust himself
in combat boots, dark jeans.
He’ll ask you to do something
you don’t do – like drink a Cuba Libre,
or shoot pool – and when you do,
he’ll find a way to graze your ass.
Hours will pass. You’ll down
what little’s left, then stumble out,
hands flying as he grabs your waist.
You won’t remember what he calls you.
You won’t remember how he tastes.
If you stay up hoping that he’ll call,
you’ll stay up very late.
