Young god, head held high,
proud mane blowing
in the city's dirty breeze,
clothes just enough rumpled
to make a woman believe
you just climbed out of a quickie
or stepped off of page 42
in this month's GQ.
Do you mind that I turn and look
as you walk by?
No, of course not.
You don't see me as a threat.
You don't even see me at all.
But give me ten more years...
then I'll be old enough
to reach over,
give your butt a squeeze and say,
mmm... nice buns...
C.J. Heck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-adonis/
