She told him about the deserts she matched
with her blouse and work attire. An ice cream.
Shirt. Collar and buttoned. A relative who ate and ate.
Yellows mainly and pink teas with floating berries.

He told her it would taste quite good
and to remove her clothes.

She didn't of course, but forgave the lines
emptying the liquid of her cup
onto a row of azaleas.

He took a spoon and offered it to her.
Or spent the time trying to
place them round or offer her
the strawberry mousse he has.

         Instances of spoons.

Later to smell them her spit amongst the citrus.
My only way of ashamed, he heard his mind.

                            Once, on a hot day she said …

It was a story of a Lemon Shark
as it floated by and left
and she swam alone with the heat and
memory of sun and colour lifting
coolness from the water.