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