You’re scanning a shelf at the book store and from the corner of your eye you watch the man standing next to you crouch down to browse the bottom shelf, except that you notice his eyes are drifting more over your legs than they are over the book titles.
You’re practicing your upward facing dog position in yoga class, with your head craning up, but you catch a glimpse in the mirror along the wall in front of you of the guy to your immediate left, and you can see he’s paying much more attention to the form of your ass then he is to his own yoga form.
You’re standing at the grocery store checkout counter and you can feel a pair of eyes boring into your back and you know they belong to the fellow who, on this crowded Saturday, elbowed his way into the line right behind you.
And you’re wondering, “What’s he thinking?”
Here’s your answer, from the pen of a poet.
The slim, suntanned legs
of the woman in front of me in the checkout line
fill me with yearning
to provide her with health insurance
and a sporty little car with personalized plates.
The way her dark hair
falls straight to her slender waist
makes me ache
to pay for a washer/dryer combo
and yearly ski trips to Aspen, not to mention
her weekly visits to the spa
and nail salon.
And the delicate rise of her breasts
under her thin blouse
kindles my desire
to purchase a blue minivan with a car seat,
and soon another car seat, and eventually
piano lessons and braces
for two teenage girls who will hate me.
Finally, her full, pouting lips
make me long to take out a second mortgage
in order to put both kids through college
at first- or second-tier institutions,
then cover their wedding expenses
and help out financially with the grandchildren
as generously as possible before I die
and leave them everything.
But now the cashier rings her up
and she walks out of my life forever,
leaving me alone
with my beer and toilet paper and frozen pizzas.