And He Talks

And he talks
until coffee lasts.

Eliot’s spoon 
animating his white fingers,
he paints her a shore
that has at its core
the need to swallow.

The cheque. The tip.
Her lip
too dry by now.

Quiet, there’s no lust for more;
she watches
a violin spill beneath his chin -

Her lip
too dry by now.

They bow.