She's the Centerfold

Her hair smells like the south of France, And that’s a good place to start. From there, I’m not sure where to go. She’s aloof and elusive; an enigma Without a solid frame of reference, Yet she enchants me with her earthy beauty, Radiating the sublime sensuality Of homemade soup on a cold, damp night. In the daytime, she’s a summer song with no shoes on. She doesn’t have to make an effort; She only needs to be herself to get my neck contorted With the sweep of her grace whenever she walks on by. And those weekend mornings when we fool around, She’s the centerfold; I’m the twelve year old.