Touching Silk

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touching-silk

Between pink painted lips she whispered –
her eyes, slanted, flirting – while she stared.
She would bend her knees slightly, twisting her body
like a vanilla tootsie roll machine.

She felt as if she owned the Universe of stars – glittering
in the night – for all to see – her arm raised, her wrist bent,
never uncovered – wearing long white gloves, a bracelet of
diamonds – opened her baby blue eyes.

Back at the auto shop I watched men slap
her ass as they prepared to leave – entering another atmosphere.
A garage mechanic hid his face beneath wool,
pellets of ice hit raw skin – a last slap before a stranger said, “Fill’er up.”

A matching calendar still hangs in his basement –
collecting dust – Marilyn bent forward – touching
silk – her head flung back – tilted slightly to the right . . .
She was laughing.

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