She had a good figure, precociously attractive
Her clinging dress cut to show off her her thigh, to declare her bare and beautiful skin open for business
The man, a roughish sort, was bewitched, he clawed at her shoulders, writhed and wrapped his arms around her waist
Another woman, most certainly a woman, gyrated provocatively in front of her silver-haired, dapper, partner; she had the madness of passion in her dancing eyes, her movements had all the makings of a fertility ritual
The smartly dressed man had worked for forty-two years in the same factory, followed by another ten at the service of a global manufacturing industrialist; he was in the company of those who knew him, he stood by those who loved him
The women, and the words, could be from those back copies of Men Only, that he kept, hidden from his mother, inside his record player
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
