Ain't No Porsche
By Janet I. Buck

Some decades back,
we crossed our legs
as fluidly as ocean waves.
Our minds weren't numb.
Men stood up,
their zippers strained
by sultry sight
of bosoms spacious
as full white moon.
Hair of deep mahogany
tarnished by
the open air.

Graying rites
all earned, of course,
inherited by
riding rickshaws
in the rain.
Bored by sounds
of slowing pulse,
we listen for
a stomach's growl,
rumble of a thunderhead
above a block
of gathered hay.

Smiles glued to cracking lips
matter more
than Revlon now.
Clinging to a moment's skin
like gnats attach
to bowls of fruit.
We ain't no Porsche.
Not now. We were.
There was a time
when bodies
spat at wind and chill,
when flesh was more
than scarecrow clothes
on brooms of straw.


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