short dirty blonde, unwashed mop of hair,
here, in the line in front of me, chatting
about the coffee shop she worked at
with the barista. maybe he’s not smitten,
but I assume everyone is in love.
look at how I fall over long peach legs
under high-waisted jean shorts.
unwashed hair, here, wasted in listening
to their conversation, I spy some tattoos
on the inner portion of her forearm. stars?
a sun? no, those are eyes peeking around
her form, around the room, maybe spotting
me spot them. spy on spy.
it’s a saunter. that’s what she employs as she
leaves the shop, sipping thru a straw, hips swaying
as she subtle-struts down the sidewalk. shit man,
what did I want to order again? my mind went out with the unwashed hair.