A man with white teeth is not always a man

with good intentions. A man with an olive on a toothpick

is a man with options, a man with several moments to decide

what he wants from his garnish. The pleasure

of licking out the pimento, or the entire olive between his teeth?

This sort of thing I might get to thinking after too many umbrellas

have lost their novelty behind my ear. After too many tongues

have followed suit.

 I should never have asked him to fuck me.

Or maybe it was the way I phrased it:

do you think you could fuck me, now?

Do you think, as though he hadn't considered it yet.

You could, as though maybe he couldn't.

Fuck me, now, as though it were a time-sensitive issue.

It could've been me. I could've asked if he thought he could

fuck someone. Or maybe it was you. Maybe I should've asked

if there were a fuck in the air, if a fuck was about to take place,

if someone, somewhere, at some point that night

was going to get what she had come for.

 For safer sex, I put a tissue over the receiver

when you call. Through a thousand miles of cable,

your wet voice is coming to get me. I say I'm wearing

yellow cotton panties with weak elastic

and a Virginia is for Lovers T-shirt, which is true.

I say, I'm thinking about your really great cock,

which is not true — I'm thinking about your

really great apartment, right on the beach.

I say, sure I remember that time I flashed you

in a club on 10th, drunk on Tequila, but was I?

I say, go ahead, baby, I'm ready, and what I mean is,

prepared. A bird sounds outside the window.

Birds, so lucky, flying around, calling to each other

without any pretense of protection. Is it dangerous?

If bird's bones are hollow, does it follow

that so are their hearts?