Bottle (edit.)

Bottle

It stands on the edge of the table.
Its sweat, a bead, a tear,
trickles from its lips
along the lines of its breast,
and drips down to the wooden
cracks on the floorboard
forming a stain, a blot, a spot
where other sweats from
other bottles wet.

It stands on the edge of the table.
A woman, a goddess, a mother deity,
a staple of modern-day dietry,
posing its ancient beauty
for the world to see.
Its caramel fizz freezes the nose.
Its soda bubbles burns the bones.

It is cold, it is cool, it is a cooing crow
that fills up man’s sweat
he lost to a woman’s scent.
It stands on the edge of the table,
erected, mounted, and very tangible,
a rising tower, a hardening dark claw.
Its lips glistening with
its sweat, a bead, a seed,
longing to be grabbed on its
head to quench an
animal thirst.

It stands on the edge of the table,
sexless for its being sexy.