Randshaw Muses

Randshaw stands in a shop
Behind a young woman.
He studies her figure.
Nice legs. Bit thin maybe.
Not as thin as Minnie’s.
Matchsticks. He moves closer.
She is next in line to be served.
Nice bottom; firm, but not big,
Not floppy; not like Bet’s. Hips good.
Childbearing Mother would say.
The young woman moves forward
To be served. The waist goes in nicely.
Put arms about easy. Squeeze.
Would do if she were mine.
She moves nearer. Perfume,
Not cheap. Powerful, but not
Overwhelming. He wants to
Feel her hair, but holds his hands
By his sides. He sniffs the air
Around her. He cannot decide
Which brand. He holds in
The scent of her. Closes his eyes
Momentarily. Tries to imagine
Waking up beside her. He opens
His eyes and she’s gone. Yes, Sir,
Can I help you? The till girl asks.
Maybe, Randshaw says,
Maybe. Let me see...

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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