You Ferrari baby. You Lotus Elan. You dream man. Smooth moves, always some sleek bitch on
your arm, and me side-kickin’, just afterthought. So I shoot you, replicate you in oversized prints
spread out on my bed like facsimile. Those blown-up biceps, fine-tuned torso, face up on my
pillow, your perfect pores. How the camera loves you, baby, those smoldering, Billy Dee shots
aimed straight at a woman’s vulnerability. How you juice them, seduce them, your voice
dropping an octave when a woman calls. And you get all Barry White. You’ve kept up the
upkeep. Changed the oil. Sleek. Toned. You Alfa and Romeo, baby. You candy apple. You metal
fleck. The wind buffs glitter all around you. That night at my studio after one too many
Hennessy, we stand toe to toe, and I turn my lips to yours, ask, why not me? You grab my ass
with two hands, squeeze, and shrug. Baby got no back. And I flash to that chorus line of sloe-
eyed beauties you’ve bedded, each one bottom-heavy, riper than I could ever be. As if derrière
were the measure of a woman. Let’s get back to work, you say. You rev up your engine. I flick on
the lights. Oh, baby, you shimmer, you gleam. Stand up, I tell you. Pull the shirt above your
head. Now you can’t see me for real. You, who can’t see the Beemers for the beaters. You, who
wouldn’t know love if it bit you on the ass.
Photo Credit: Photo of C.W. by Alexis Rhone Fancher, 2016
*This poem was a Finalist in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.