There is a man with his back
on a cold counter. Sweet sausage
grease in the air, his nose and cheeks.
She sings a song he’s never heard,
hacks thick steel through onions
red peppers and green.
He watches her neck bare, short hair,
pink spots where white shirt curves
up shoulder, skin the color of old pages.
Her naked feet splat upon the cold
cheap floor, and he walks, hard to hear
above the coffee black bubbles and chops.
Still, she senses his presence split seconds
before arms squeeze hips, ribs, rests
chin near a clavicle quite sharp.
Ow shave she laughs prickled
on her throat, his stiff whiskers digging in,
then cuts her short finger fairly deep.
Now the onion, dyed magenta,
looks ready for inspection
in a slide pinched between lenses.
He looks at the blood.