Tuesday, May 3, 2016

HERE I WAS A CHAUVINIST

Looking at her, she was simply too
beautiful—I

was ashamed
to admit—her sunglasses far too

balloon shaped
and maroonish and heavy silver—her

mouth, which was precisely drawn
for pursing and

smiles and other
small

gestures, presently hanging far too
wide open—

her entire body
simply too upright, dignified in the

lightness of its angle, billowy
in the innocent

continuity of its sun-
translucent

cotton morning attire,
and utterly

uninterested in assuming a posture
deferential

to however
flirtatiously it might be rubbing

up against the taunting
masculinity of loud motors now—for this

commuter
bicycle

riding idea thing—not to have been
either

a vaunting mistake—or else,
the clichéd

aftermath of some late-
breaking Waterloo.

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