A pink burnoose, or
Peach perhaps, but always matching
Chiffon slacks and tops and shoes.
She wears them on her morning walks;
And spinning, skirting her profile,
The same, pink parasol
To block the glare.
Pastels? To go, I guess, with
The white of her skin,
The canyon folds now filled and troweled
Smooth—cosmetic concrete that
Thickens every year.
In her sexy days, white was in.
“I’ll bet she was hot! ” some neighbor notes.
He’s right, of course. That
Alabaster skin back then was tight and fit
Every arc and curve and dip and bend.
Searing yellows, seductive blues
caressing every move; those
Satins must have come alive!
When that fanny took the boardwalk
Eyeballs clicked, every Johnson at attention.
And painted glossy,
Bloody red on that white face,
The launching pad of a million
Feverish fantasies.
She was hot! And she still
Sees herself that way
Through dead men’s eyes.
Ross Lakes
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/chalk-lady/
