I am starting to fear that Hathor is a distant relative of mine
but this is the nineties and
The Bayonne Beauties ruled by the pool.
Taking long drags off their Virginia Slims
dripping knowledge from their tongues
soaking-up as much of that dying sun the sky would allow.
They always seemed to have glamor surrounding them
even in ninety degree humidity
those ladies always left me drowning in modesty.
One of the goddesses looked up at me from under her sun hat
the Cupid’s bow of her lip was inverted when she said:
“Doomed you are sweetheart, it’s true….”
Then took her perfectly painted, acrylic-infused fingernails
brushed the hair from my face and told me to own it.
In-return,
I ran from it,
unworthy of the menat,
until the eve of my twenty-forth birthday.
