You're Out Before You Realise It's All Wrong
Wearing clumpy boots, black
stockings, a miniskirt, loose top, no
bra, lipstick, darkglasses, a black cowboy
hat,
riding the borderline of too old for this,
riding a bike, the skirt riding up,
you've just realised the white
crotch of the pantyhose is flashing
oncoming traffic, that unless you ride
no hands tall people
can see your tits.
Because of this you know you'll see him.
Sure enough you pass a tree and he
is walking home with plastic bags
of bottled company.
Your legs from a long way off
have his attention, your morse code fanny,
your hat like a nervous breakdown.
You can't take your eyes off the man who didn't fall
even after you jumped.
The bike wavers, you coast
so as not to signal SOS.
After months of mute hostilies, you win.
It's depressingly simple - your legs
squeeze a mangled hello from him
as you glide by like bad television.
Gameshow Cowgirl and Drink o' Grim
and the ManWomanThing.