Page O' Poems  

 Whiskey on Wednesdays

Sunset
in the fine blond hair of her thighs;
she only shaves to the knees.
There is a softness
like old flannel
between us.

In a moment, one of us will speak again.

But for now, there is only the tinkle of ice
and the dark trail of condensation drops
up and down our shirts.

--Z.T., 17 Nov 2000.

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