Observation

Through a haze of Sunday cigarettes
and a web of Celtic music
I sip cooled tea and track,
over the rim of the cup that does
not match its saucer,
the Irish server’s gorgeous ass.

His appeal contains some mystery:
His fair hair recedes in wisps
along his skull, though his large
blue eyes and generous mouth
open up his somewhat somber face.
Seen from the side, his tummy
bulges slightly over his belt.

But oh, sweet God, that ass.
It fits into his jeans like breasts
fit into a bra, or an orange
fits into its peel, or air fits into
a balloon. I want to cup my hand
along its curve, to feel the sweep
of buttock into hamstring, to tug
the damp white towel from his left
back pocket and snap it at that
perfect, molded ass—

but his left hand glints with
a simple band of silver,
so I pour another cup of tea,
relax against the wooden bench,
and watch his denimed buttocks,
tea towel swinging, saunter past.