what is it with these men.
they know women.
sisters mothers,
aunts, lovers
and friends, wives.
why can't they avert
their eyes.
not look at a pair
legs,
a blouse opened,
parted lips,
an ear, an elbow,
a hand, the curves
strolling by.
no one is exempt.
the waitress pouring coffee.
the maid
smoothing out a bed.
the bartender
sliding a drink
across the bar.
what keeps them on alert,
heads turning
at the click of heels.
the men whistling
as they stand in a ditch
with a shovel,
not having a chance.
what keeps them looking
as an april wind
lifts long hair and skirts.
the old boys
in the park,
pointing with their canes
as a woman fifty years
younger runs by.
it never ends.
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