The ice sculpture’s melting down at my banquet,
my cavalier’s sword’s become just a dirk,
and each of us are laying bets on the precise time
there’ll be only a puddle left on the floor.
Outside the hall girls with indigo scents
and spearmint breath are walking crazy-eight patterns
all over the parking lot, getting ready to reward guys
they earlier stroked to huge erections
fluffy towels now to keep their blue jeans dry,
dry to the touch of folks who really count.
___
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged in-between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he grabbed a master’s degree from the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars while the getting was good. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as The Commonline Journal, Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Laurel Review, The Lost Coast Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.
