My polka dot love
is doing handstands on the train platform,
her silver and gold tainted skirt falling
about her waist.
She likes to show off her red knickers to the old men.

“Everybody needs the flesh,”
she confides in my later,
heavy breath and glisten skin.
“It’s wired hard genetic, eyes will follow it always
and we all look, we all do.
May as well deny the need
to breathe
if you want to deny the flesh.”