Cookey

The men at the Music City Auto Auction
stare at her, for she wears skin tight
shorts that hug her hips like a thong
in the crack of her ass
and highlight her vagina lips frontal view.

I approach her, asking: “How are you?”
She stares at me saying: “I’m all right.”
I say: “No one is ever all right. I’m wrong
often.” She laughs so I say: “I think it’s crass
of me if you need to

know.” Her eyes explore mine, reminding me
I am writing a poem about her, word by
word in our long silence, eyes questioning.
“Your hair would cost you a fortune in
Jamaica,” I break the silence. She smiles.

“My nails cost more-see.”
I look at her artsy nails, longer than I can try
to weave into a poem about eye questioning
alone. “Ohio, she says. “I grew up in
Toledo,” and smiles.

My poem ended and hers began.
“Jesus would have loved me like he did
prostitutes like Mary or the woman
at the well. Oh, hells bells, he would
have even let me dry his feet

man.
Did
you ever know a woman?
I see you could.
Too bad we will never meet

again.”