I want to write about The Lady.
But all I can think about is you.
Short skirt, legs for days.
Last night your skin matched my memory,
sunset colored and made of silk.

Of course there’s a cage.
And of course there’s singing.
No one shows restraint without also
keeping score, pages marked
like a fever dream.

The soft fabric of secret drapes along
your body. You champing
the bit, a horse in heat. Or are you
writhing, a cold-blooded chamelon,
sunning for mercy?

The Lady keeps the key by a chain
in her frail pale hand.

(after William Steig’s Lady | About People, 1939)