She ask me, so I answered

She ask me, so I answered

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

Looking up at her —in the eye,
Moving my eyes, down,
Thoroughly checking her out with my eyes,
From boy cut short mousy brown hair,
Past pouty, cracked lips,
Noticing her necklace with the broken Jewish icon,
Between her top button, unbuttoned blouse,
Pausing at each nipple of her nearly flat breasts,
Peering inside her blouse where the button was missing at her naval,
Seeing the shirt (blouse) tail tucked in on one side and out on the other,
Past the red drapery cord used as a belt,
Noting the bunched up front of her sloppy too big boys’ jeans,
Looking at the hole just inside the edge of her left pocket,
Viewing the wet spot, mid-thigh on her right leg,
Appraising the dirt on her knees,
     showing evidence of having recently been on her them,
Surveying that one pant leg had a cuff, missing from the other,
Noticed the mis-matched sandals.

Watching as she shifted from one foot to the other.

Appreciating the soft curve of her feet and ankles, disappearing up into her pant legs,
Approving of the long, legginess moving up toward her waist,
Delighting in the glimpse of pink lace through the hole in her pants,
Cherishing the thoughts that her partially down zipper brought to my mind,
Silently applauding the bow tying the cord at her waist.
Marveling at the erectness of her nipples behind the pockets of her blouse,
Treasuring the creaminess of her skin at the base of her neck,
Arousing, just a bit, at the sight of her tongue moistening her lips,
Beginning to moon over the faint flush rising on her checks,
Frankly, falling for her, as her eyes stared back at me.

And I answered,
Softly,
With a tiny smile,
And a bit of my own blush,
You.