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 and 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- fleet as fluttering flames- ebullient nymphs: women who know no bitterness. A sea of plain, contrite men who have lusted but not have made a claim- burlesque! The girls are giggling and raising my hope.
Not to resist now, not to stray from the path, not to forget the edicts of a monogamous love, and be by the book : to go on without the hope of a lay with my happiness girls- I figure- is for my best.
But, heavens, I am so sad.