Age is just something else

between my lips: Thirty,

thirty, thirty – I roll my r’s

with care, lest you stagger

with me, a slur,

 

a slip of a tongue

and it’s dirty,

dirty, dirty. Carry

my baggage up

the stairs, I stare

 

at your back, and think, what

a coincidence, I am thirsty,

too. Thirsty

with my pulse quickening.

Thirsty for what

I say if I chase air. I sip

 

iced tea. When all is too quick,

titi is just something else

between my lips.