Heels click on concrete. Attracted, I stare
at black sheaths—they start with spikes that rise
five inches then merge with leather. The pair
thrust up to grasp the middle of your thighs.
Over-the-knee boots but with attitude:
steel-toed; fine silver chains bind each ankle.
Flash of flesh below miniskirt, just nude
hose protects you from wind that makes me huddle
in my coat. Pale locks flow down your back, stark
against your inky jacket, seem to shimmer.
Transfixed, I wonder what Venus of the dark,
hands pocketed, could stand this cold weather.
You turn. Through your rouge retouching, I see
cheeks crusted with adolescent acne.
INSTANT NOODLES 