I was listening behind the potted palm

when he said she gives good word, like some
girls roll their r's under leafy cabanas, hips
wrapped snuggly in flashy strips of cloth
he wants to unwind, slowly, the way he
savors those words. I see it playing out
in his eyes, two little silver screens
filled with girls gyrating, rolling their
tongues and hips beneath his fingers,
I know he wants that, wants me
to read one more poem before I go, knows
I've been listening. His skin is hot, like sunburn
mixed with cool breeze and the scent of rum.