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She has a lilt in every step, a rise
That terminates at the hip, half pivot,
Half twitch, on full display. That's not what has
The men trained trancelike in her path, with taut
Glances that betray all and see nothing.
No, as she knows (and we're barely aware),
It's all about a wry smile lingering,
A woman's smile, which takes much less to muster
Than any man might imagine. Atone,
It says, for the faux testosterone-fueled
Thoughts engorging you as though you're in
Between my legs already: no, indeed.
And then it's gone like a will-o-the-wisp,
Snuffing out any last, flickering hope.
© 2008 by J. M. Pressley
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