She's like a long surfboard
or a thin lane
when I look her up and down.
Alone with me, polished, and flat-
how I like them.
I only notice the similarities
because of these glances at a door
that she never walks through.
Bottles and olives and everything
in between.
When she does,
It's just a flare.
This bar is and will always be
the opposite of what never walks
through that door.
I can attack the mirror
that sits behind it
on my own time.
Charlie don't surf.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem