Free-Write, Week 3

Contraction (Revision) of 'Curry':

Every third Thursday, at thirty minutes past
three hours expected, he comes... carrying
crowded musk, sweat-rolled summer dust;
a perfume drowned damp-earth, steams
of humidity after fresh rain-- burnt oil slabbed
on the perky fringes of purples, deep-desert
reds hugging his neck line. Tacky: the way
the wild Night Queen blossoms between
each porous thread, smacking into bitter;
coolness of cracked cardamom continues
breeding onions and lamb in a wooden mehmas
somewhere across the tracks of 113. I picture
rich pink and yellow mouths of frangipani's breathing
adornment up vac-holes in each pant leg. He
strides toward a door ajar, allowing spices
from inside to linger out and greet; tickling nose-
hair while salivating buds-- she comments on
the soft nap fabric of fleece sliding between
each finger, flinging fast the weight of it all on
top of still-simmering supper, he comes...
at thirty mintues past three hours expected carrying
left-over's in Tupperware, wearing the gloss
of tumeric and coriander curry powder on
his chaffing lips-- smiles, reminds: "Diversity Day."