Tuesday, July 8, 2014

The Woman at the Window

...could see the blue of his eyes
from her second-story window and 
his long, dark eyelashes, how his salt-and-pepper hair
had that tousled yet within the bounds of conformity 
kind of look, a look that requires 'product'
which he used deliberately, she could tell,
even to go to work every day with the guys
he used it, tucked in his shirt to go haul asphalt and talk rag time, 
even then it was important to look good.

The woman at the window could tell he was totally
the alpha male amongst his peers
wherever he went, anytime there was a question he
was it, even as he lifted the hatch on the back of the truck to let
the slippery dark tar slide into his wheelbarrow,
his movements meant something, they said something,
I'm it, they said, you need never want another thing now, 
I'm here, even as he walked that wheelbarrow to just the right spot
and dumped it carefully, moving slowly and with the ease
of a dancer, the fluidity of his movements almost feminine,
in charge of himself and everything he touched
comfortable with the physical world,
on top of things.

He had the kind of body, she could tell,
that the Greeks built into statues, preserving forever
the lines and curves and planes in all the right places
and as the morning's work
warmed him up, he took off his long sleeved shirt to replace it
with the short-sleeved one he'd worn over it
and she softly breathed an "oh thank you" 
to all the gods that ever were for bringing her such 
a lovely, beautiful gift to begin her day.

Even the ink on his arms and on his back
was in all the right places and 
he took a while to put his shirt back on
draping it casually around his neck for a bit
as if he knew he was being watched and admired
as if he recognized out of the corner of his eye
and in that place in his belly that recognizes such things
the shape of an appreciative woman leaning into the window
with her arms raised and the sunlight streaming in and the ink
on her own arm feeling shiny and bright
like a beacon beaming out her attention. 

She wondered for a moment, as she saw his shirt come off
as she watched him bend over the wheelbarrow
holding the handles to lift its fullness with ease
happy to be there and not anywhere else
his body just waiting to move wherever it needed to next
what it might be like to run her thumbs down that deep V
on either side of his belly button
to place her palms on the flat of his chest for just a moment
to run her fingers over his lats and his waist
to feel his perfect ass and the solidity of his thighs

and in a parallel universe
say twenty
OK maybe twenty-five
years ago
that woman at the window tousled her own hair
gave it that just-climbed-out-of-bed look, then
very deliberately and with forethought 
put on her most sparkly earrings, darkened her lips with a slick swipe,
slipped into her slinkiest nighty and only that and 
walking barefoot and
with clear intention
stepped out onto the porch.

No comments:

Post a Comment