Afternoon with Mrs. Sanders

Her smock flakes off onto

the ebony tile floor.

Reading his face she

giggles; it has been a long time since any man

            admired her glow.

 

She plugs his lips with two of

her fingers and pins him down onto

the clay and paint mosaic table.

 

Her skin glitters with sweat beneath

            the fluorescent tubes hanging from

            the ceiling. The window permits a small

            breeze which meticulously sculpts their contours.

 

Her spine arches upward.

Her desperation is expelled, little by little,

through a melody of sighs and groans.

Bodies shifting and pulsing to the

            rhythm of the world.

Skin brushing against skin,

            creating new steam with each passing second.

 

She is of no ordinary mold, he thinks.

She is a masterpiece,

a pure Picasso.

 

In the upper corner of the room,

            a spider preys on a fly.

The fly sees no real reason

            to resist.