In the slow, self-aware drawl of her walk,
In the low growl of her torso
Angled forward slightly, braced
Against the corroding air;
The men in hats who wet their lips
and grind their teeth and watch
Somewhere, a few paces from the watering hole.
They have passed her around
In shared cigarette drags and she,
Always in the center, has danced graciously between
Calloused man hands,
Within the tar-filled lungs that pull her in with big, greedy inhales,
Each lavishing in the singular cigarette smoke of Her skin,
her scent.
Cogitant ergo est.
This young girl. This feral lover -
They tread carefully around her hungers,
Her affections at once contained
And untamed.
They long to hear her laugh and,
With her laugh, to hear the childhood songs of their mothers.
Catching sight of the yearning in her eyes,
They yearn for her to yearn
For them.
The men, they sit in indulgent circles and sigh.
She pulls each close and whispers salaciously,
“Baby, I know, I know, I’ve known all along,"
And they love her because she
Looks at them as if they were
The only thing to see in this dreary man’s world.
