Thinking of midnight eyes at 9 o'clock in the morning and wondering whose tongue will meet her thighs tonight.
A woman who is free can make 2 am eyes at half past five at the man who stares too long through his Windows of imported German glass
Run her hand up her shirt at happy hour,
For she really is happy,
Need not wonder who or where,
Just know that later there will be a who deep somewhere.
Thin line between coquettes and whoredom
She dances this line daily as she bathes away the scent and lust of midnight men and dawn screwing.
Remembering that the choice of so-called freedom,
A Liberated body bound to a conscious mind,
Was her own.
Thinking of midnight lovers at 9am does not always bring a smile to lips.
She thinks of vines in the twilight hours,
A swamp fog for a swamp fox.
He was her lover.
His eyes never told tim,
Only stories of what the midnight magic hour could bring.
Hair like Spanish Moss.
This is what she thinks of when the man in the truck stares through his tempered Japanese glass.
She thinks of midnight eyes at all hours of the day.
Happily letting fingers dance' tween her legs,
Upon her bosom.
She thinks of kisses that guide her through the city's swamps,
Damp skirts flapping and biting her ankles all at dawn.
Those midnight men polluting her womb with unworthy attempts at planting progeny.
She stands in her shower while he sleeps in her bed.
Someone deep somewhere.
There are no swamps,
No timeless, ageless eyes.
Only a sticky stench that she watches pour away from her body
Run away to the drain between her toes.
Happy to have the freedom to dream of all those she has kissed with her knees,
All those she remembers at 7pm when the traffic has finally lightened up again.
When she smiles,
She can't explain why.
Being a coquette again,
Never a whore.
Never at midnight.