From the Sidelines

It seems I have always sat here watching men like you — 

who turn heads, whose gaze is always either a kiss

or a slap or the whiplash of pure disregard. Why fret? All

you’re doing is walking. You’re this year’s It, the

one righteous integer of cool cruising down a great-lipped

channel of hushed adoration, women turned girls

again, brightening in spite of themselves. That

brave, wilting smile — you don’t see it, do you?

How she tells herself to move on; blinks until she can.