A woman with a tattoo
over the top of her *******

above her red dress got
on the uptown bus and

sat down. Henry tried not
to look, he couldn’t make

out the words that mingled
with the coloured flowers

tattooed there, looked away,
followed for a short while

the goings on in the passing
street, then turned again

and gazed surreptiously as
if he’d not intended to stare

or find once seen, but still
the words were lost in the

flowers’ hold. The woman
thumbed her cell phone,

messaging a text, while he,
giving a sidelong gaze, tried

to solve the puzzle of the
words and meaning that

she wanted to convey by
placing the tattoo there,

but no matter how hard
he looked or turned his head,

no sense was made, just
a puzzled aging brain instead.

She crossed her legs, a little
more thigh was shown, her

suntanned flesh too much
for eyes of Henry’s age, he

turned away, carrying the images
seen to sup upon another day.