Last Wednesday, or perhaps the one before, I was
doing my weekly, neurotoc shopping at Woolworhs
amongst half - crazed, dead - bored housewives
whom I imagined in my vanity
through stockpiled, groceried shelves,
pause now and then
to cast me beckoning looks.
It was lonely sexuality I was craving
and as I plucked a dozen apples
freshly picked and glistening with Temptation's juice,
I lowered my eyes
and decided to ignore them.
Then walkin up the hill that overlooks Rose Bay,
a little more than just disgruntled.
(Though I surely would deny it)
for I had failed to speak to anyone
save the girl on the checkout counter
and the man who drove the bus.
I heard a plaintive cry from a sensitive looking
girl in a yellow car, with one of those faces that Rubens
would have liked to paint,
though surely he would have found her much too thin.
I found her to my liking.
She asked me for directions in a voice so pleading
touched with an edge of alluring escitement
perhaps, put there by me
and I mumbled useless answers and left her still the more confused.
So she thanked me kindly and I watched her drive away.
Sweating and tired I flung off my boots
barely sparing an idle thought for the pretty girl
in the yellow car who'd lost her way,
when it occcured that I might have asked her back
on the pretext of my phone.
Quietly and discreetly, so the neighbours wouldn't wonder
why I should find the need to check my mailbox three times
in five minutes,
I looked out to the street and yearned to see a yellow car
with a pretty driver whom I hoped had lost her way.
..................................................................(19 / 2 / 85)
