Sandals and Sartre...

A woman, to me,
Fair or as dark as can be,
Strong as she is, as she is
Is not her attachment, neither ‘missus’ nor ‘miz’--
She smells of the dustiest books
She gives the sweetest of looks
And I cannot resist
For she cannot be missed
That woman, to me, to be…
That she might exist!

White wine and a sundress,
Smiling in undress
Satisfaction as her perfume
She knows, and does not assume.
Temptation, she hides in a flourish,
As there is only her mind to nourish
Slender figure that invites me,
Wilful wit that excites me,
That woman, oh woman,
A woman, precisely.

And fondling her leg,
She grins as I beg--
Half-joking, for her thought…
As my words come to naught
And I’m left on the ground
My voice, without sound,
That she’d lift me with mere gaze
Penetrate me with phrase
Transfixed, by that woman-
You ender of days.