I'm not good at love poems,
I will give myself that;
nor am I good at compliments
conversations and romance;
in fact, I'm the complete opposite
of what a woman should be
when it comes to love and conventionality.
High expectations from others on how I should be,
I've been known to bring them down.
No stranger to sweat, dirty hands, calluses
or sizing a man up sexually in a suit
as my profession tends to border on blue collar [women],
and yes, they do exist in places many narcissistic women
would not dare dream of working in.
I've also been known to get a bit vulgar
as my tongue is quite rough around the edges;
I think I'm capable of actually making a sailor blush
if I tried hard enough.
But there's something about you
many, many miles away, or perhaps near
that is making me feel. . .oh, I don't know:
. . .girlie. . .sixteen. . .innocent. . .
competent of jumping off a bridge
if you strummed me in all the right places.
But today, right now, at this very moment
I can honestly say that I'm good with my imagination,
with wordplay, taunting eyes and invoking thoughts
that could easily make you second guess the woman
(or the man) that you think you're so in love with;
conceited, perhaps, but a realist I am.
So what's on my mind, you might ponder to ask?
While I don't have a Pocketful of Sunshine,
I do, however, have a drawer full of naughty things;
things that cling, that bound, and yes, that buzz in the night.
But putting all contemporaries aside, I instead envision us
as a pair of nostalgic lovers;
forever frozen in a still of an erotic portrait,
nothing dark, nothing disturbing, provocative or demeaning,
just me dazed and lazily hazed upon a red plush chaise
in a tiny black dress and fishnet stockings, and you
kneeling sensually by my side in a black tux,
hair slicked back with the Dapperish of Dan's
while the elongated of a firm leg rises to meet you.
With the skillest of hands, hands obviously no stranger
to the refinements of women, you stroke the silhouette of my leg.
And somewhere between the 1920's and the 1950's,
years I would have easily given my life for,
you lean in and steal a passionate kiss from my lips.
And the kiss reminds me of an old Rita Hayworth movie,
lost on a film reel,
buried somewhere beneath nostalgia and dust
just like this poem will be in time;
but for now,
this poem is for. . .