at the periphery, edging your way slowly into conversation
How did I miss it before, the way you oozed your way
into my view, after oozing a few drinks into your gullet
The neat trick up your sleeve is your wardrobe of safe sweaters,
and your ability to stay silent, to simulate a slight air of shyness
But a skirt maneuvers its way up your torso, side-to-side, and
your hand settles on a drink first, then a shoulder, then a lower hip
and to no beat at all, you both silently short-sway, a little
alone in your own private world in a public bar
You are the wolf in sheep’s clothing that every mother and father
warns their Little Red Riding Hoods about
Not because of your big hands or big feet or big fangs, no,
but your big eyes—the big intentions behind your watchful eyes
those ever-watchful eyes, slicing whatever wears a skirt or
shimmies and sashays in front of your skewering gaze
I feel your gaze, the one that sensualizes and strips,
the one straddling women with each swig of your drink
And I know you never sleep; you are always watching,
ready to wear your sheep sweaters and search--
Written: 12/21/09
Photo: Tim Walker
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