The Hitchcock blonde, sheathed in a scarlet dress,
Curls her
sleek body in a siren’s pose--
A cool, aroused, unfathomable mess,
She
squares her shoulders and looks down her nose
At all this sullen canine male display.
She’ll
slip a kiss to kiss on her own terms,
Return a hug and smoothly squirm away,
Then roll
her eyes and think, “Men are such worms.”
But she’ll do just what each man needs to think
He’s her
worm--warmly reach to hold a hand,
Pat this one’s knee, thrown that one a sly wink.
She maps
her country with a silky hand
And
waits. Waits for one of these smitten
curs
To make
a move, so she can make it hers.
Copyright 2012 Matthew J
Wells
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