Lunchtime at the park finds me eating
my pickle and meat sandwich, while
trying to hide my eyes watching
people, especially the women in skirts,
or the young couples sitting at picnic
tables imagining their conversations
of lust, and filth, and hope, and loss.
'i realized at 25 years she makes me
more happy than any other person. i'm
glad i married her.'
'Why do you like these pants?'
'Because i can see your panties.'
'My husband never licks my ass the way
And as fascinating as those conversations
are, i'm more dazzled by the light
cutting through the trees.
The leaves whispering as the wind blows,
or the grain of the grass as it lives
below our feet, those feet at the end of
those long legs that reach up under
those skirts, like i wish my hands could
even as they read their books,
write in dairies,
or tease me with a shake of the shoe.
Because i know even the homeless guy
with plastic bags for a pillow can't
help but wonder what it would take to
rest our heads there. Under those skirts,
in that park, even with everyone
watching because we're all voyeurs here.