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You snared my roving eye today

In an enigmatic kinda way. . .

There we were, caught in the traffic

Standing dead still, so damn static

 

I saw that neither your slender right hand

Nor your left one bore a golden band . . .

As your fingers beat, a silent tattoo

To the music playing on your stereo . . .

 

The morning sun shone on your sleek black hair

A mirror of the ocean under a hammered steel sky

Which framed so well; your gorgeous, imperfect face

About in the manner of a fine Belgian lace. . .

 

And now . . . the cars will move

And your Mini’s in the groove

While I’m stuck in the right lane lock

As your funky tail fades way down the block

Now you’re dodging ‘n’ weaving, oh so slick

Oh well; I’ve lost you to the fu-ck-ing traf-fic

 

I wonder . . . that mole on your cheek?

Birthmark or cosmetic bleep?

 

© Peter Mark Garnett 7th February 2010

 

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