Dawn Price

Michael Vaughn


I didn’t want to drop my glass I
clapped a hand against my knee you
entered the room.

Your face so close I wrapped an arm
around your back you slipped a hand into
my pocket.

We watched a man who juggled knives I
could not help but take your hand you

The night was cold you wore your gloves you
took one off to hold my hand we
crossed the street.

We kissed outside you dropped your keys into
my coat and slipped your hands around
my neck.

The song is done the crowd applauds I
rest one hand around your waist and
clap a hand against my knee.


Michael Vaughn


Starving tenor is
waiting on the eight-fifty when
his sweetness reappears
holding a sack of
potato salad and roast beef.

She ought to be surfing a sofa,
storing calories for Monday.
Instead she cruises downtown delis to
feed her passion.

From the moment they met
he has wanted to dine on her.

It’s the only way to turn
her flesh into his,
but civilization frowns.

He chews her lower lip
sees her off
and settles on a bench to eat,
picturing her flavors in the
mayonnaise, the french bread,
the chocolate chip cookie.