Those are the patronizing eyes that speak
As one who knows she’s beautiful,
Short hesitating movements with fingers
Across a starched skirt
But intentional
Like the odds of a horse race.
The queen of Camelot
Might consider,
Sunglasses slid to the tip of her nose,
That the woman was pretty
Like sailboats or Hyannis
Though she would need a cocktail
Before ever revealing herself poetically.
There is jazz to looking at her,
The woman next to Jackie
There is something like olives
In holding this frame.
Setting down a sandwich crust
And trying the last chip
He slips her into his pocket,
Finishing his lunch at the café
He has an appointment to keep
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