Women of Indifference

Down by a shivering creek A widow sat in the fog colored 5 am. She held a single blade of grass against Her inner thigh and waited. She'd come. She was sure of it. And when the fog cleared A November mist would Gently kiss the wisps of hair That danced above her brow. She'd learn how the tide pulled across Her body and even though she doubted it, How a man's hand would slide To warm the skin below her waist. She had promised this And only this To her mother on her dying day. And like generations of widows before her, She doubted her secrecy. She swore that anyone within a five Mile radius could smell it on her. They could smell how she doubted the Thick hurried sex of men that Didn't worry about a stay at home wife. They could smell how she hated to see them When she knew they were devouring The advantages of an imagination that Snuck beneath a low cut blouse. She couldn't make herself take in The beauty of a man who picks his teeth During supper or wears his socks to bed. In a memory, she'd left a love Made of summer skin and nothing more. She had offered solace within An undeveloped bust that slowly moved To the swaying of lessons on human interaction.