So what is she wearing exactly?
Not a short, short dress,
but a man’s eyes.
Certainly not a tight halter top
over small breasts.
Those are fingers surely,
fingers with pink ruffles.
And the red of her nails
is just a mirage.
The paint is really smudged across
another’s churlish loins,
the ones beating like a heart
in his underpants.
And beneath it all,
there may be a body
but a body of what?
Of evidence?
Of water so clear
a guy can see his creepy face
in it?
So who is this one
traipsing up and down the sidewalk,
just this side of midnight,
as the cars roll slowly by?
She’s driving those cars.
And it’ll cost her.