At the counter I run my finger down my glass.
The cut lemon dries slowly, the pop song flickers.
The door opens with promise. You come in
and nudge near to me. We slip out and away.

In my shadowed room I smooth
a tongue-path to your nape,
follow your nose with my lips,
stroke your tense back as we curl and cry.

Now we lie in ease on stroked sheets.
Tomorrow you will be gone. Then I will
face the stale air, an unruffled bed,
one single towel on the rail.