The blocks in the city are long and straight and
I have walked them numerous times.
There always seems to be the flawless woman
Perched on every street of my travels. A woman
Who turns heads of both sexes with each step
Of her impeccably pedicured feet hugged by designer shoes.
She is the one with hair that shines bright;
Tenderly sun kissed monthly, in a salon down the street.
Lustrous and perfectly groomed are her tresses
And the clothing she wears. Her outfit in ivory
Is custom tailored and unblemished; not a slight mar
On even one thread of her 5’9”, 135 pound frame.
This woman walks in three inch heels as if she floats.
Her steps provide just enough bounce to gently toss her hair
And her bag never slips to knock into her coffee cup;
Held by a hand showcasing something huge from Tiffany.
Her conversations include plans with fabulous people.
She is on her way to an important meeting or a gala.
This woman is an apparition, a figment of my
Formerly envious imagination when I used to lament over
Never having been a girly girl, owning more sweats than skirts,
Always spilling red sauce on my white cotton tee shirts.
Never the woman who commands the attention of a room
Due to nothing more than my sheer presence as I enter.
Instead my petite self wears flip flops with chipped polish,
Clothes with huge paint splatters smeared across my ass and I
Drink a beer right out of the can while I watch sports.
I have never been one of those flawless head turners,
And that is just fine, perfection is too much pressure.
I’ll take the me I am, the cute but clumsy girl next door.