Fleshtones
Of our café au lait,
Highlights of morning
Sun in your hair;
You close your eyes
And raise your skirt
Allowing the glory of your legs
To me and the sun
And a suddenly attentive waiter.
"Penguins,"
You call the waiters in Paris,
Black vests and legless
Long white aprons
While new leaves
Dapple last swirls
Of jam and mustard,
The art of breakfast.
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