In
this crowd there are no faces,
only bodies
sliding against each other,
exchanging sweat and cologne.
A few of the boys circle the outside of the herd,
licking their lips and waiting
to deliver their
premeditated
little flatteries.
Across the room girls
twitter behind their hands
over tall glasses of sex on the beach
each with a different color straw.
Between the boys
circling
and the girls
twittering,
a young woman’s hips make figure eights
while the boy behind her devours
the space between them with purposeful steps.
His hands come to rest on her thighs,
pilgrims starting from her little red skirt,
grazing over the silk black halter top
and arriving at the pulse point of her throat
where they are home.
She stops.
No movement
until she plucks his invading fingers
and leaves him
with his fellow teenage Lucky Charms
in their strobe-lighted black milk.
She’s not his spoonful tonight.
