Who is this girl
Walking across the side street
In front of my car
Against the light?
Are to mow her down
But by law I must wait
As I am her subject.
I watch in fascination
As she saunters on long legs
Wrapped in skinny light-blue jeans
Hugged lovingly around
The perfect ass,
But juicy enough to cup
If she will let you.
She is a cool drink
I want to be just like her,
Long waisted and small breasted,
Smooth skinned and unsmiling,
Nonchalant nose, unconcerned eyes.
She looks at nothing
Yet you wish for her to see you.
I want to be that girl–
Young enough to seem fresh, unused,
Mature enough to do the using.
She parts the air with her presence,
Graces the sunshine with her existence.
We are visitors in her world
Though she rarely spends a night alone,
Unless by choice,
And only with the strongest
And longest lasting and hungriest
And only for pleasure,
Never for love–
Never for that–
Because love as we dream it
Is an illusion,
Is not on her radar,
Not in her vocabulary.
How sexy is she?
When she clears the hood
My light turns yellow, then red.
She meanders across the opposite street.
I see the scattered others,
Men and women,
Drawn to the gravity of her effortlessness.
Her beauty is not what grounds her
But rather a secret thing she will not tell–
Although you may cajole and flatter,
Although you may buy her the finer things,
Although you worship at her profane altar
Again and again,
You will never get more than
You can divine from her careless gait;
No artiface, no pretense,
Just a total comfort in her skin.
Who does not want to be like that?
I do, and when my light is green
I try to remember
If I was half as shrewd at her age
And what, if anything,
Anyone has ever seen in me.
© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2010.