I get the sequined jeans.
In the window I catch a glance
tight stretch denim, flared legs,
my palms press down my bottom and damn
look at that I do have the hips of a woman!
Historically disguised by androgynous Levi’s,
these low riders with mirrored vines
that bloom on thigh
twist around knee and spill leaves
over my ankle,
god how they accentuate my curves!
John stops to speak with me after church.
He presses his cheek to mine and holds
holds on many moments longer
than if my husband were here.
Since his wife passed
he takes all the skin-to-skin contact he can get.
It is the only thing that comforts him.
He told me this at the coffee place
after we first embraced.
I promised he can have my cheek
as long as he needs it
and he takes it every Sunday.
White whiskers bristle.
Usually he holds his breath but today I feel
the heat on my neck.
As we talk he has trouble
keeping eye contact.
It must be the jeans.
Perhaps the shiny objects are distracting
or he is thinking damn where did those hips
come from or maybe
in the sequin reflections
he caught himself growing old alone.