Your hourglass is tight
Cinched in that velveteen
Black evening dress,
Blonde wisps
Curl on your shoulders,
Radiant nebulae
Across dark depths.

Your finger tip
Rims the glass
Before lifting your dark pint
From bar to whetted lips.

I saunter over
Raising my hand to touch
Trace your spine
As I contemplate my line.

What might a poet
Ex-painter say?
Wanna see my art?
But I remember
I’ve used that one before
And you were disappointed
When I did.

– Kurt A. Zubatiuk