Tall legs in a green skirt walk on by,
poinsettias rubbing on her open thighs.
Her hair is cut like an air force jet;
Glasses like a stylist’s lisp.

I explain myself in a half sung note,
“I’ve followed you since five blocks back.
Can I buy you a coffee or a salty snack?”

She keeps on walking when I realize
my mouth was too dry to make a noise,
so I wet my tongue and chase her down.

I ask her, will she marry me?
She slaps my face and cries,
“Introductions would be fine about this time.”

I tell her I was born for this,
schooled to sooth her moistened lips.
“I’ll be your servant and sell my pride.
I’ll follow your orders like a solider falls in line,
salutes the flag,
and then he dies.”

She pounds her heel into my toes,
and tells me I am far too bold.
“I know I’m the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen,
a face that sells cases of the Vaseline.
I’ve been told this about a thousand times,
the first from my husband and the last from this guy.”

That’s when I hand her my business card,
a poem on the back,
in the shape of a heart.
I brush my hair and smile with my eyes.
She slaps my face one final time.

written on 06/09/2009 by: Matt Kane