She walked with that. You
know the purpose, the walk.
Work it, says she, in tight, bright
whatevers. ‘Hey guys,’ then gone.
And I feel foolish for making eye
contact. If I were ugly but had
money, or a bad sit-com, things
would be sweeter. Alas, I’m poor
and an ass; ie, desperate.
Let us touch fingers sometime
and see what electricity results.
Fat middle schoolers
trudge to who knows where
little-fisty hearts beating
faster than they should
such a short walk, too!