A pink burnoose, or br Peach perhaps, but always matching br Chiffon slacks and tops and shoes. br She wears them on her morning walks; br And spinning, skirting her profile, br The same, pink parasol br To block the glare. br br Pastels? To go, I guess, with br The white of her skin, br The canyon folds now filled and troweled br Smooth—cosmetic concrete that br Thickens every year. br br In her sexy days, white was in. br br “I’ll bet she was hot! ” some neighbor notes. br He’s right, of course. That br Alabaster skin back then was tight and fit br Every arc and curve and dip and bend. br Searing yellows, seductive blues br caressing every move; those br Satins must have come alive! br br When that fanny took the boardwalk br Eyeballs clicked, every Johnson at attention. br br And painted glossy, br Bloody red on that white face, br The launching pad of a million br Feverish fantasies. br br She was hot! And she still br Sees herself that way br Through dead men’s eyes.