Small Compensation

[71degrees]

It was on W. 54th, a fragment
of a coffee shop; couple of stools,
no intimacy at all, a cold rain chill,
an empty space ‘neath the canopy;
he didn’t even see her slip in
next to him, he was waiting
for the rain to ease as simply
as waiting for a piece of cherry
pie after a light dinner

She had tiny brown eyes,
bubbles at the corners of her mouth;
I must make amends, he thought
for even saying hello to her,
but there wasn’t anyone around
to forgive him so he did; there,
he had spoken, and she looked
younger than he had thought
when she looked back with eyes
somewhere between sixteen
and nineteen but probably closer
to fifteen; it was shadowy
and dark under the canopy,
and he knew why she was there,
so what difference did it make?

She looked hungry and he was
hungry but they were different
hungers; his focus was on her
throat, long and creamy, her
left hand scratching behind her
ear, no earring, just her throat
down her neck to her thin
shoulders; she mentioned
she was free-for-anything;
her throat went down her neck
to her thin shoulders, but he
couldn’t quite make out who
she really was, and her throat
went down her neck to those
shoulders and a wild grown-up
would have carried her hunger
to a room and done terrible things
to her but not enough people
here would have understood

He hears her say something
after stepping out into the rain,
but what difference did it make?
In this kind of weather anyone
is capable of remaining a virgin