You are full brazen;
Your swollen tan lies crisp on sunbaked sand;
You call attention to her snug rounded smooth firm thighs,
But you take her breasts in hand instead.

Seductive anticipation,
You promise her the taste of fried chicken skin;
And so her mouth waters all woman—
Course and raspy pudding under foot.

But she is short on your mind,
She is the shadow of a soporiferous color;
You set her aside for a long look at naked dancing girls—
Their bold vees fit well for the Valencia republic.

Your lamentations bay to the one who will take your grasp;
Your espousals become the smell of arid nicotine;
You promise motherhood to girls offering views of their paunches,
But your oaths tumble over ecstasy stains on fingers rolling dry leaves.

You go your separate ways:
You to a pretty face with unpainted lips.
She makes no promises;
She is only hungry now to know the heart.


Today at market,
shopkeepers showcased brand-new cars
and seduced nearsighted and potbellied old men
with promises to stop their loneliness.

The promises were offers of a future
spent speeding on swift wheels.

And so shiny chrome kissed the old men
and sent them dreaming behind leather-bound steering wheels,
the smooth bellies of animal skin seats
rubbing the bottom of their trousers,
while the shopkeepers picked their pockets
as each wallet and infatuation came undone.

And I stood alone bearing my scorn, ignored.