The Women Most Will Never Be Poem by James McLain

He opens the door she walks past.
Dressed in the latest fashion, perhaps
she is dressed for free.
Long, tall and slender, one would think
that if she became pregnant, someone else
would have the baby for her.

A silk dress in winter?
Perfect breasts nipples as straight as arrows
to perfect to be though ours sag.
Thinking the thought of what I'm afraid to ask.
Blond hair that is straight tomorrow it's curled,
the extensions that I can afford came from a corpse.

Smug devious smile's that can change with the wind,
nurses dark twenty, never seen laying on the green hill's.
Inside the best restaurants, seated by the window she
eats very little and with hungry faces pressed to the
window makes it a point to throw it away.

Yes she may have a perfect vagina, adequately trimmed,
devoid of leaves or a bush.
A man who is wise steps up with a bag, asking her to
put her hand deep inside.
Turning to her he whispers to her, that the best candies
inside the brown paper bag of a stranger.