Improper Parts

The old man thrills to read the dirty bits 

where they’re most unexpected. 

Book shop displays,

pale pages splayed wanton behind glass 

for all to see those slight sweet smuts; 

words that sound like what they mean - 

the awe of throb; the thrust of pearly breast, 

an itch to ‘b’, the hush of saucy whispers 

simply nothing – not even sweet unless 

she’s fifteen and fresh, her ink unsmudged.

Cookbooks are better than prose, 

he finds, exposed riots of flushed cooks 

and rosier fruits – tumbling cherries 

burst with scarlet sap, 

the candied apples ooze, 

caramel toffee drapes a spoon; 

apricots slump over-ripe on a steamy counter 

in a drizzled honey bun kitchen -

salacious orgies of what ifs, could be. 

A lap of pooled untempered chocolate,  

gauchely dark in its shadowy bowl; culturing yogurt 

teased from tepid milk, turned swollen and bulbous 

in bellied jars like the softened shape of virgins. 

After the slather of soft veiny cheese, the smack of cocktails 

and the seep of fruit juice on diner’s chin, then tussles at the table.

Seduced by sweat peas bathed in butter, 

with lobster tails and a melt of cheddar spuds, the climax

a shameless tart of passionfruit and mangoes, 

An errant breeze - the pages whorl meaty invitations

to eat, slurp, stroke berry nipples stemmed by fingers, nails dirty

from the dumpster. The words keep coming. 

A breathy stain of ‘O’ on the window, a blotch of forehead grease

 - the old man hitches up the cord 

that holds his pants and turns away, 

packing an appetite uncontained by empty pockets.