On sun-fringed days she comes, her smile
nurtured for younger men. Decadent in
lilac halter top and matching jeans, she
yanks her powder-blue motorbike from the curb,
retreats before I can complain about the
indecency of late mail. I shake my
nickel-plated cane at her disappearing
growl, cough incessantly from the dust and
smoke swirled by her exhaust pipes.
Only the weaker sex plays perfidious games:
not once has she shown interest in finely
curled mustache. Indoors I remove my hat,
exhale my paunch back into position.