Sunday, February 12, 2012

I am told that tights aren't pants, but the girl

I am told that tights aren't pants, but the girl
at the next table over looks thoughtful to me
in style. She purses her beautiful lips
like petals: a red just this sweet side
of pink, of the sort one imagines appeals
to bees -- as if, like us, they bother
with the colors of what they drink. And skin
the proverbial cream. She is also wearing
what seems to be a new man's button-down:
a pale, morning-glory blue (or morning-after?),
shades lighter than the darker blue of her eyes
(cornflower); the sleeves, pushed up, slip down
the length of her arms, like water down off-white
stems; and the collar, folded open, shows just
enough throat to signal her defiance of the winter.
(She quickly removed her coat.) Her style
belongs to the spring. I am, meanwhile,
torn between thinking these sorts of things
and noticing that, when she eats, and I 
have seen this, now, many times, she almost
invariably manages to slime in tendrils
of her own hair, not very long -- it is naturally
salsify blonde -- in with bites of sandwich,
and then spends time extracting the hair
with pesto'd fingers and cleaning it of masticated
food and her own saliva; the ends
are now tinted green. I am counting the bites.
This is a good deal less appealing than pants that are tights.

(Composed 12 February 2012, on the first cold day of a winter that has been unusually warm and dry, such that certain things have been unseasonably in bloom.)

No comments:

Post a Comment