The Drifter

February 2008 by Mark Hoffmann

The drifter stands at the stove
cooks rice and peas, hums a jazz riff.
She studies him. 
Her lips part tongue darts and licks
lizard lids draw closed, gradually unfurl
"I'm an alien."
He puts a lid on the rice, turns down the gas,
"Is that so?"
She proves it; shows him her quim
trim ginger curls fashioned like Cassiopeia
a cardamom bouquet draws him inside; 
but first the exclusivity agreement ...
 
The next day she asks him to leave. Doesn't say why.
Whatever; he grabs his hat and moves on.