His smoke shoots down her throat, an urgent stream
she likes the more because of where it's been.
He's giving it to her. She takes it in.
It's not the weed that makes her green eyes gleam,
but pride. Ha! If only Mary Ann
could see her now! Those skinny twelve-year-old
St. Paulsies with their clammy hands can't hold
a candle to this dreamy, mustached man.

He whispers, "God, I shouldn't be doing this."
Forbidden! Secret! Sin! The trinity
of yumminess. A woman of mystery,
she's snaring him with her seductive wiles.
"Aw, don't be such a wuss." They quasi-kiss
again. His lashes lower: two black smiles.