Politely Asks If I Like Sugar In My Coffee,
Politely asks if I like sugar in my coffee,
He doesn’t care, but measures his next move
by my reply. Black? Syrup?
“I prefer soda” to rinse down
Something sweet, bread, sugar.
Wants to force me back into the sheets
With his deep kisses, willing to pretend
That he is sweet with subtle touches.
He loves me, he love me not,
Does not waste time brewing a second pot,
But I am late and in no mood to pretend,
No patience for make-believe.
No sense in letting us lie, deceive
For another chance he’ll not receive.
Back to business, next transaction
Waiting on the street.
Left without tip or empty promise
Of next time we will meet.