He's an ass
covered in dim lights
and perfect cream-colored clothes
the kind you find
in a magazine
or plastered on a billboard
So inviting
to the one
who likes
perfected air-brushed beauty
like the image
everyone had told her
she should be
He doesn't tell her his name
Only questions
That seem to come out undisguised
in the midst of brown sugared tea
too strong to be indulged
yet carelessly consumed
so that for a moment
she can reveal
what's really inside
The only thing missing
is a puffed out cigarette
or two
He asks if her hair has a little red
She says yes
And lets his hands
caress
what only one man should have
The gold band is forgotten
mentioned in passing
as though it doesn't really exist
He offers her a ride
an invitation for danger
or perhaps just a way
to forget the emptiness
until a new void
gets created with the rise
of the sun's first set of revealing rays
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