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the art of the welcome mat

We will add nourishment,
maybe even room for one more
after all, dinner just became supper
they said with that affable tone so customary

at times like these
I always forget to excuse myself.
Wine will sparkle like her eyes,
the dimple in the history
of my comeback will swell and storm
like the flashing lights
triggered by her form, by her body in my
shivering lack of imagination.
All good things in due time,

she whispered and her breath
turned all of my strength obsolete.
Typical, I will mutter to no one

and gladly surrender at her feet.