Never-ending purple tablecloth
bordered by fringe that should not exist
the fringe should never exist
leaving only the middle, in it’s plush favour

Stretch it out with palms so flat
make the finger tips giggle as they move about
dancing the wiggle that they are
sometimes capable of in times of splendor or curiosity

The smile grabs her face and contorts it
makes it real; really real
and there is something about that force
in it’s ferocity of possession that makes me smile

Could one ever hold a beauty he could not control
or lay bearing into a compass lost in a breeze?

Would man have to become woman to know
what only woman knows on a night where the tablecloth is gone?