Hey Girly

So one day I was walking
to the park on a pretty girl
day giving people smiles
like they were dollar
bills for the "bus."
And then "Hey Girly" rode
by on his orange ten-
speed with stickers
and decorations in his spokes
clicking. And the clouds did
cover the sun and one of my eyes
did droop and all the lillac
and apple blossum petals did
become soft shaved-off white
finger prints. Let me clarify,
"Hey Girly" did not call to me:
"Hey Girly, come flirt with me, Girly,"
but rather: "Hey Girly, I love you.
I want to cut off your fingers and kiss
them and put them gently in the freezer.
Girly."

How did I know this --

Did smoke fume from
the towers? Did sirens howl
-- nee nah nee nah or birds of prey dive
bomb the ground? Did the line up of
diminishing flags even flap and whisper

-- His mouth -- his mouth -- it
breathed a song I'd heard
before -- a sneer and a laugh
combined -- a song I'd
heard before.

And walking
around a city, with smoke,
perfume, sunshine, shadows, pot,
meat, sand, dirt, exhaust, all
stinging the eyes, I was a pretty girl
-- sometimes, sure, I'm a pretty
girl sometimes --
but I'll always be just a girl.

Copyright Louise Robertson