She’s reading and doesn’t notice me
marvel at her mane of hay-red hair.
A small plastic clip grips one-handed,
like an underweight cowboy trying his darndest
to tame 8 seconds of prairie-wild bull.
The crowd holds its breath, but of course he can’t hold out
and creamsicle tendrils fall like fireworks across her shoulders.
For him, it’s a pat on the back, and better luck next time
For me, it’s summer night and starlight and ask her to dance.