in your coffee in the morning
after unzipping the door
to the lingering smell of evergreens
while you’re still wearing pajamas
and no bra.
Spoken word is the red wine left
in your mind and at the end of the most
romantic date of your life in
that gown the little girl in you dreamed
of…and you didn’t have to pay
for a thing.
Poetry slams are the vodka,
cranberry, and lime (or the whiskey
or bourbon for you sensitive types)
in the middle of a night club
where you’re up on a platform
and all eyes are on
your bare legs, sculpted
ass, nice rack, perfect hair
and they’re cheering on that
slow burn that hits you
like a wallop so you don’t
know which way is up.
Poetry after a hard day’s work.