What Is Under Her Dress Poem by James McLain

the barroom hums, low and thick,
cigarette smoke curling around
a jukebox tune dying in the corner.
she walks in slow, deliberate,
her heels tapping out
a rhythm this place
doesn't deserve.

her dress clings like a crime,
a conspiracy of silk
and sweat,
the smell of roses rises faint,
like something sacred trying
to escape this wreck of a world.

you could guess
what's beneath—
a whisper of lace,
moist and clinging
to the curves
that make men
mistake their thirst for love.