girl on the escalator

as I go toward the escalator
a young fellow and the girl get on
ahead of me.
her dress, her stockings are skin-
tight.
she places one foot above the other
upon the steps and her behind
assumes its position.
the young man looks all
about.
he appears worried.
he looks at me.
I look
away.

no, you see, I   am looking
away, I am not looking at your girl’s
behind, don’t worry, I respect
everything, the flowers that grow, the
birds, the sky, the
universe.

I sense that the young man feels
better and I am glad for
him, I know his problems: the girl has
a mother and a father and maybe a
brother, and undoubtedly a bunch of
relatives and she likes to
dance and flirt and she likes to
go to movies and sometimes she chews
gum and talks at the same time and
she enjoys the dumbest tv shows and
she thinks she’s an actress and she
doesn’t always look good and she has a
terrible temper and sometimes she goes
crazy and she can talk for hours on the
telephone and she wants to go to
Europe every summer and she wants to
own a Mercedes and she’s in love with
Mel Gibson and her mother is a sneak
drunk and her father secretly hates
blacks, browns and yellows and she
snores and is also cold in bed and
she has a guru, a guy who met Christ
in the desert in 1978 and she wants to
be a sky-diver and she’s unemployed and
gets migraine headaches everytime she
eats sugar or cheese.

I watch him take her
up
the further escalator, his arm
protectively about her
waist, thinking he’s
lucky,
thinking he’s
macho, thinking that
nobody in the world has
what he has.

and he’s right, terribly
terribly right, holding on to
that batch of
intestines,
bladder,
lungs,
tetrazone,
flagellate protozoa,
sulphur,
carbo dioxide,
phelem and
phlegm.

lotsa
luck.