There are Women at the Shipyard

Flocks of blouses scream
for you to finger their hems,
fumble their buttons.
Open them while you,
you rush to fill them
with your wide face,
your cotton-seed heart.
You love the wind
for sending skirts
skyward, blessed with
peeking panties.
You send them your eyes.
Wait for them to beckon:

How about it, big boy,
you who smells of brine,
you with sea salt skin.
You who have left
no heart unzipped,
no opening unfilled.

Looking Forward to Lunch

Sharon is the best.
All legs, superior ass
small tits but that’s fine.
She sticks her tongue out
while she takes dictation.
She answers me
“Yessir Nossir.”
She is not Dolores.
Let me tell you about her
legs again. The length
of them could bridge
the space between
me and my wife.
Sharon lets me watch
her eat. She takes large
bites, loads her mouth
with pastrami on rye.
I think her body, hard
as mine, would swallow
me like that. Not loosely,
finger tight.
I have not touched her.
But I think I will.
I think of it now,
she is this newspaper
folded tight with my
finger curled inside.