Babe on the train

Babe on the train

You see her standing there,
babe on the train.
She’s wearing loose white slacks
of some material between sweats and canvas
and a pink white-striped cotton shirt.
Her ass is full in every way–
with large dimples in the fatty musculature.
Her tits hang low and sharp,
like torpedoes diving slant–
a revelation, an enlightenment:
an answer to the question you
can’t quite voice.

Narrow waist.

Her nose a little Greek; her cheeks a little
high-Cherokee; her face a little tanned;
her eyes a soft sparkled Mediterranean vacation.

Gabbing away, leaning over the upright luggage backs;
moving a ring off and on again her well-shaped,
sweet-tanned straight-laced fingers;
talking to a tortoise-freckled 40s tallthin blond-red.
Laughing; changing position; bending forward
haunches back; straightening up;
fiddling with her hair.
Only looking your way that once;
you let her see the longing,
the desire-swept tilted-head soft-eyed look-up;
she responds with a sympathetic eye-bat,
an understanding lip-purse.

Her hair rich thick brown river;
bunched up into a gush,
then split in two lilting falls–
played with by those hands.

I call her a babe; but that’s–
she’s gotta be the most wonderful,
the most sweetest, charming,
fascinating, precious–
in nowise vapid unawares
or anything but keen reals–
young woman I’ll ever side-slip past.

Let it pass; let it go; the painted slider
strains against the darkstill pond,
his wrinkly neck snorkled up.
You can’t have them all!


Comments are closed.