buxom red girl in the bookstore


sweet swollen red
impossibly tight

I should draw my gaze away.
but it's sooooo
  like being wakened from only 3 hours of sleep
could I please just linger
a moment
longer?
gazing at her?

she looks upwards wonderfully
from oversized pages
full of Emily Dickinson

    "A big book with few words."  It's a lame line.
    "It has pictures," she corrects me.

how to stand there
like I have some business
other than trying
to look like
I'm not trying
to look like
I'm looking
at her.

buxom
beauty
in
red
she offers helpfully:

    "If you like Bukowski, you would love Henry Miller"
    "Didn't he write 'The Crucible'?"
    "That was *Arthur* Miller (!)"

trying to sound erudite
I splat on the ground.
at least she politely suppresses the laugh.

    "He was a man's man.  He wrote like Bukowski, but he got more action."
    "Girls *like* that?!"

not words I expect
from that pretty mouth.

    "Could I have your phone number?"
    "No."

she smiles confidently.
she has said that before.

    ". . . But you're sweet."

I hate
being
sweet.

I hate
feeling helpless
as
her
tight
redness
wrapped
around
her
  walks away from me.

never to call me.

never to return
to
me.


maybe
if I could
write like
Bukowski.





© Copyright 2004 Daniel S. Wilkerson