the most delicious weakness

Running late again. Seems like they’d ironed
all schedule kinks by now. But that’s the state
of public wind craft transportation.
No surprise but no less an annoyance.
What’s with these wind crafts these days? Or this route.

Whoever runs this route needs to look
into another career. Sure don’t serve
the public running a service this way.
Wind crafts run okay – on time – downtown.
Someday enough coins will accumulate

and maybe one of the wind craft lots –
used is fine, good used wind craft – damn but look
at those floating up there without many cares,
that’s the way to go, except the local
students in higher learning levels –

hey what’s creepy about normal drives?
The sadists might be the creators
and manufacturers of those skirts
and the females know skirts were made for their forms
and – like there just entering the wind craft

waiting zone – this wind craft’s waiting zone,
which must be the city’s least reliable
waiting zone – oh the plaid again, plaid’s
really catching on, and they must know
what plaid of any color combos

do to a male no matter that male’s status –
erases all other things, just coming
into the field, all the songbirds in the world
could collect in that oak’s branches that sprawl
so far into the sky and all the volume

knobs could turn to the max and that
appearance of the female in the skirt
– that her skirt is pleated as well as plaid
becomes fast irrelevant because those
toasty creamy limbs without a word

but only by being silence all the songbirds
and the mighty oak and all its wise branches
fade to phantom impression and all
other acts or any single act
furnishes its own enlargement

like the tuck of the hair behind the ear
or the hairs that are not pulled into
the tight glossy ponytail, tucking
a free wisp behind the ear and the lobe
alone becomes a star one would gladly

worship if ordered if only to be sent
into madness by nearness to those limbs
the plaid pleats flaunt and it doesn’t hurt
or help or however to see it that those
toasty creamy limbs move to make a cross

and turns a monk into a creep who sees
those ligaments flex as the limbs go to soft
squeezing and a glance goes to the sky
and then manicured nails force the sweater sleeve
to slide up a wrist perfumed by nature

or perfumed by a perfumer’s product
and a quick look to see if she is early
or late or the public wind craft runs
tardy today; in all things independence
is king, but in this one case the great

weakness is the strongest if secret
passion, and it’s hard to imagine what man
would not be her obedient butler boy
just to know the shades she harbors those
excruciating inches behind plaid pleats.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in poetry, vignette, women and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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