His Desire

The buffet was overloaded.
Steaming choices tantalized.
Her plate filled itself
with her eyes on the melting butter,
her hand on the spoon, unseen.
Jello mingled with hamburger hotdish,
cheese on the salad sliding into
chicken boldly touching peas,
breaking the sinful taboo of youth.

She ate with the wild voraciousness
of a belly knowing only water,
and he stared at her,
fascinated by the motions
of her fork and knife,
a choreographed dance
upon her plate,
the brazen licking of her knife.

But there was no embarrassment,
no shame in her gluttony,
only her head finally leaning back
allowing the last taste of tiramisu
to find its way past her tongue
where it lingered
to her stomach
now beyond satisfied.

He left the dining room
a beaten man,
whipped like mashed potatoes.

No possible way to compete.