Naked Lunch.

Come over for lunch, he said,
But a recent memory
Came up in her head, the last
Time he’d called her for lunch, she

Sat stark naked on the floor
Eating with chopsticks while he
Sat opposite likewise nude
(Enough to put her off her

Chinese food) reciting from
Memory some poems of
Bukowski in his New York
Moan and the rice slipped from her

Chopsticks to her body’s hair
And all he could do was stare
While carrying on with the
Bukowski poem as in

The background some Stravinsky
Played from huge speakers on the
Wall in between the Degas
Prints of nudes, not to mention

The Picasso prints hanging
In the hall. No, she’d not go
To his naked lunch, she’d have
Her bath, sip some gin, lay back

Her head in her cosy bed
And release a gentle laugh.