Over the milky coffee,
at that scattered table,
he tried not to undress you;
he employs distractions,
but fails, again, to subdue
his notion of you stripped,
of your dreamt breasts
rested on that cold wood,
your ribs riding as you lift
the hot drink to your mouth,
and the finger that you use
to wipe the froth from your lip,
is the same finger yet to go
near his cup-rattling cock:
The dregs of his latte cools.