Not Her Type
She sees him strutting the boardwalk
eating from a greasy bag,
he’s not her type; Jersey shore muscle,
distasteful for a girl of her upbringing.
Yet her body latches onto his,
magnetized by a shocking carnality.
Her pith is tinder
a smolder beyond her intellect.
Imagination leads her
through tunnels only the willfully blindfolded
would enter.
The night is full of erotica
she once saw
carved upon an Indian temple.
She is passionate about
the muscular scent of grease,
for his figure strutting to her table.
The morning finds her
washing her sleepless face -
watching the mirror slowly blush.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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