Declarations Do Work Wonders

Quinn McIlhone

I’m so overwhelmed

by your allure

I must affect

a casual air,

but the pose melts down

on a humid morning

in late August

that proves revealing

as the sunrise itself.

You’re getting ready

to go to work

and not yet dressed

when you ask me

to tell you something nice,

something to ponder

during down time at the shop.

I begin to rave

about your body,

and you stay silent,

eyes averted.

I love your build, I say,

then get graphic

in the vernacular.

You’re surprised at such language,

at being chatted up

with attitude

straight from the street,

and I fear I’m losing you.

But I’m already far out

on the tightrope

and keep walking,

things coming to a head

when I say you’re so hot

I’d never find your equal

were you to leave me.

You’re silent throughout,

expression solemn,

but it’s the silence of one

used to being admired,

who’s seen others reduced

to a compulsive litany.

You’re taken aback

by gutter talk

but like the notion

of passionate attachment.

You play along, stroking my hair

and pledging fidelity,

then break into motion

and put yourself together

for the workday.