Melissa, Nicole Miller, Birmingham, Mich.
(Barf Bag Poem #3)
She’s a bit sexy, with her magenta, spaghetti-strap
satin bustier for a shirt, and black, ass-fitting satin pants.
Sculpted biceps announce what must be many trips
to the gym. I wonder, does she…”? She pulls out a
lint brush to work on the matching coat, because, after
all, we’re heading to New York in the post “Sex and
the City” era. It’s a boon for us oglers, an uptick
for voyeurs. She has a Dalmatian and a baby Boxer
waiting for her at home, which must be one helluva sight
walking down west 25th Street dodging art-goers on a
crisp Thursday night. The view between seats a and b
is superb: shoulders wave briskly, hair pops precisely,
and eyelids, well glittered, look adolescent, but only
in profile, as she’s not about to make eye contact until the
right Mr. Big asks the right question in the right tone. You
can’t blame wealthy gymnasium stars for hitting the city on a
quest for orgasms. Wow, she just bit the nail of her left ring
finger while reading Nicole Miller’s hotel information. Some
poet here, more like soothsayer, she’s staying at 160 W. 25th St.
She plays with her hair, her nipple rises, she’s leaned back her chair.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2004. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.