John Dempsey

She's Learning

There’s a girl in Washington Square Park. She’s sitting on the grass, cross-legged, her
pale, stubbly thighs
spilling out from a skirt that’s got grass stains
and feminine,
almost petite cigarette burns on it like they were made from Capris or
Virginia Slims, and the sun magnifies
the spots
she’s missed shaving.

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