Picnic under the stairs

[Semicircle]

He gestures come in,
Resting on his seat,
Steam rising from the kettle–
tablecloth pressed neat.


Subterranean warbles
hum with fireflies,
To which his silky lips  
harmonize:


“Time slips quick
on floors so slick,
and though,
your company's nice,
it’s time to
snuff out the lights.”


Dust shedding above-
steps creak alive,
walls shriek and writhe
oxygen deprived.


Reaching into 
the moldy bouquet
he parts her hair 
with a plastic flower.


“Goodnight.”


She closes
her eyes.


“See you in an hour.”