Where are those girls?
Who carried warm water in their purse.
Saving for later, for a whiny day.
Dipped tea-leaves in it and splashed in the faces
of the child-men who came to them timidly.
Memories of them
petered and lost in my heart.
In correct times impermissible, unwise, perhaps?
So, whisper, whisper.
Benevolence, one part, and lust, another- a meady concoction of the seventh heaven
and, thrill as their bait.
Thus the trade- oh the trade is so onesided that I’d trade my house, my cars, and the damn dog away for I could be thrilled instead.
Where are they gone?
The lithe girls who carried perfumed water in their crotches,
would raise a war with the lift of an eyebrow- or a titter storm?
Are they done now, gone now, even now, ashes now, coward now?
The children of a norm?