for T.O.
There’s this girl,
woman really,
at the gym.
She’s a trainer now,
single,
with a 5 year old son.
“His father’s an asshole,”
she mutters.
Then claps
an open palm
over her mouth,
as if embarrassed.
Once she said “Fuck!”
Again the palm to mouth,
but in her crinkled eyes
profanity hones
the edges
of her world.
Her breasts
(as in hard-boiled
detective screeds)
spill over the top
of her black leotard
like whipped cream.1
They really do.
And she makes them
bounce a little
(not too much)
and jiggle
when she walks.
And she touches.
You know—fingers
lightly to your arm,
an innocent caress
across your back.
Sometimes
a knuckle to your
upper thigh!
But not lascivious!
A gentle touch
spiced with an easy
radiant smile
that warms us all.
Just once
I saw her weep,
shrunk by
that asshole’s
impudent threat.
Does she dread
indignities
some men impose
on her imagined flesh?
Or does she relish
the delight she spawns
in all the rest of us?
(12/26/06)
1 Grateful thanks for S. J. Perelman’s account of Dan Turner, the tough private eye featured in Spicy Detective Magazine