The soft tanned hump

Cut by a thin strip of black fabric

Peeks out from under a tank top.

The strap trails down under the shirt.

Suggestive. Accidental or a set-up?

He doesn’t know, but he assumes.

He assumes wrong.

 

Pale thin legs stretch up and up

Until the denim cuts them off

Just across the thigh under the bouncing cheeks.

It draws his eye as if words were scrawled there.

His sister wears words there sometimes,

Not that he looked or anything.

 

A cocktail dress clings to the curves,

Every smooth transition highlighted.

He gets lost in the hills and valleys

With eyes that devour,

That burn through like the ends of cigarettes.

He assumes that’s love.

He’s wrong.

Poetry

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