Topless
I’m
really sick
Of walking onto a, let’s say
Beach
And listening to a block
Of listless frogs
Commence in their whistling
At my unintentional guerita entrance
It’s like the wave at Angel’s
Stadium
When one stands up
And the rest barge in
For a full five eights
Their brains deflate
Diverting air to zippers . . .
Toppling gutters,
I hide my utters
Beneath their vacuum stares
In vain
Blond strands
Abandon men,
Who think that they’ll invite her body too
To sparkle just as bright
The hairs on our heads are just
as dressed
Why press them with denuding masks,
I ask
Your stare that bares these breasts,
Unfair |