Lady in Black

Reduced to something
assessed in a glance,
sixteen - bagboy.
Why did you take off
your sunglasses,
to thank Me?

Curious enough to ask me
for translation of symbols
found on her brown paper bag,
“ancient Greek” I mumbled,
my first love poem, unrecognized.

She came in black
for her last appearance,
suggested I bring
her bags to the car.
For the first time
she removed her scarf,
tossed her curls
to set them free,
wicked smile overcame
her elegance, “Want to see
what this ‘Vette will do?”

Fuel-injected black convertible,
little black dress above the knees,
in a heartbeat we’re in motion,
slam that 4-speed, feel that roar.
For forty years the endless moment,
never better ... never more.

Bag Boy

Resentful, restless, and at loose ends
the day after her husband announced
another promotion, another move...
inconsiderate, over-achieving asshole
who never seeks consensus,
or even asks her opinion.

She wore her best black lingerie
under a sexy black party dress,
“Quick trip to the grocery store,”
she shouted on her way out the door.

She took his pride and joy, a 1961
fuel-injected Corvette convertible.
Satisfaction made her smile when
tires smoked under acceleration,
barked when she power-shifted gears.

She didn’t feel like cooking - so she
bought several bottles of Cabernet,
a French baguette, a pound of Brie,
and two thick Porterhouse steaks,
(hubby’ll man the grill if he’s eating tonight.)

While unloading at the check out register
she caught the bag boy frozen in a moment
of undeniable voyeurism and unabashed lust,
stupefied by breasts served up on a shelf bra
he’d found the courage to smile and ask could
he assist her loading groceries into the car?
Tall, lean and tan with a sensual smile,
bag boy’s eyes missed nothing,
promised everything but innocence...

She took off her sunglasses and scarf,
invited him to follow her to the car.
It may have been the heat in his gaze,
the calm of his voice, or the aftershock
from the brush of his fingers...
she offered him a brief joy ride.

Convertible top down, skirt high on her bare
thighs, she only drove two blocks, as fast
as the ‘Vette would go, feeling like she’d explode
or scream, her panties soaking wet, she wanted
to just keep going, his eyes never left her.
There was no touching, no words expressed
their desire or longing - it was a silent goodbye
to the bag boy, and a rude F_you to hubby

Poems by Auguste Hand