Rusted ringlets hang Precariously pouring out Of a metallic scrunchy. I can’t keep myself From glancing intermittently At the slight glisten Of a cocktail On her cupid’s bow,
Then, a few inches below, Her taut neck, A small piece of cloth grasping Its sculpted edges Begging the question How it would feel To cup her face With fingers embellished By cheap and chipping paint?
Would she settle there, A placid pool of profundity? Or would she seep between The cracks of my fingers Unable to be contained By such a simple stranger?
She adorned the corner Of the couch With such grace. It was breathtaking, As she spoke in rhythms Lining the crests of her intonation, Hazel flashes kept tempo, A conversation shifting in tandem. Poetry in motion.