The men in front of the drug store cease their banter,
follow her approach with their eyes.
Focus on her breasts, their heave with each step
like loaves of rising bread dough.
Their force opens another button on her blouse,
already unseemly to the women sitting on stoop steps,
who shake their heads, click their tongues.The men imagine kneading those bountiful breasts,
soft, warm, yeasty, yielding. Oh to sleep,
to wake, pillowed in such soft luxury.As she passes, their eyes move to her hips
that swing as she sashays by, one slightly higher,
like it’s beckoning, Come here boys. Reach around my hips, pull them close. Feel them push back until we are pressed to each other, dancing to the rhythm of our pulsing beat. It continues,long after she has turned the corner, is out of sight.
Only then, embarrassed, do the guys poke at each other,
argue over what makes her so sexy. Tease and dare
each other to ask her out, try those “moves”.But they are all wrong. I know. I have studied her
since she first lifted me, held me overhead and our eyes met.
Her eyes, like nothing I had ever seen before or would see again.
One blue – the lightest, coldest frozen ice blue
that chills your bones, floes you away.
The other, brown – a warm, melted chocolate brown
you feel yourself drowning in, willingly.I knew even then, I was lost, entranced forever
by those irreconcilable eyes that could never
both focus together, both be content at the same time.Copyright Linda J. Himot July, 2021
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