Happiness girls are standing on the tarmac of a red plane- bare teeth, pulsing. Their breasts are proud like upper class- their leggings plump boast like hope.
In the dream of a dream of the edgy runway lights. The turn from here is a stroll. A norm-bound, debt-bound a port that devours. Despises a man who’s drunk one too many on the flight. Cheap and on the red eye. Now leering.
From the nose to the tail of the plane, as fleet as fluttering flames. Ebullient nymphs. Women who know no bitterness. A sea of plain and contrite men who’ve lusted but not made a claim- burlesque!
The girls’re giggling and raising my hope.
To stop now, to stray from the path. To forsake the edicts of monogamous love. Or be by the book. To live on without a hope of a lay with happiness girls, is good perhaps.
But, heavens, I am so sad.