BY JOHN GREY
Copyright is held by the author.
She’s at the next table.
I am writing this down
as I sip a foul milkshake.
I’m taken by her eyes.
Hers are as blue as the ocean on a cloudless day.
Her forehead, her silky hair,
bob atop them like a dinghy.
And then there’s her mouth.
I’m in the presence of
the folded wings of a bird,
two slightly red bows
sleeping side by side,
or something a soldier
might have stitched into
the shoulder of his uniform.
Then I pass quickly by her chin
to admire her breasts,
which are like a day’s helping of oranges,
or where the letter P gets its inspiration,
or the proverbial smuggled snuggling rabbits.
And then she has to show her legs,
an A-frame with the upper floors dark,
a rungless ladder often thousand hopes and dreams,
the first dawn of mankind,
the ultimate weapon,
the bars of a cage
which my thoughts reach out and rattle.