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Young god, head held high,
proud mane blowing
in the city's dirty breeze,
clothes just enough rumpled
to make a woman believe
you just climbed out of a quickie
or stepped off of page 42
in this month's GQ.
Do you mind that I turn and look
as you walk by?
No, of course not.
You don't see me as a threat.
You don't even see me at all.
But give me ten more years...
then I'll be old enough
to reach over,
give your butt a squeeze and say,
mmm... nice buns...
C.J. Heck
Read poems about / on: city, believe, woman, god, women
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C.J. Heck
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