You finish the last spare rib,
rolling the bone
between soy-stained fingers,
whose touch I know so well.

You nibble up and down its length,
sucking at succulence,
tongue darting, teasing,
eyes twinkling as they catch mine,
juice dribbling down your face.
You lick and nibble,
you suck, I dribble.
I know what's in your mind
it's in mine, too -
but for now we must be good.

You giggle: I sigh,
and rearrange my napkin
so your husband won't notice
(as I have no gun in my pocket)
how very pleased I am to see you.

Wild Bill Balding

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bone-2/