The
long legged lady perches on the 8.07
She's
an 8, maybe a 7.
No
iPod, Kindle, or paperback
Only
shiny black stockinged legs.
Idling out
of the window sipping coffee
Lipstick
smears her rim.
She
crosses her sheer pins and I snatch a glimpse of her
Stocking
tops, pale flesh and undressed state.
She
sees that I saw and now she's cross.
I
escape out of the window as she tugs down her skirt
Another
sip; she glances at her watch to take her elsewhere.
I
want to get into her stockings.
I
want to take them off.
But
only so I can put them on.