Who’s that lady?
she sat outside the car wash
on narrow concrete planter box rail
cool january morning mid day
bright sunshiny crisp clean air
people milling round
the lady’s probably 85ish
what they call elderly,
past cougar nomenclature
no matter to me, i’m waiting for my car to be washed
she’s waiting for hers, alone
except for her confidence
her movements which belie her apparent age
her manner of cool, yeah, even
sexy, glamour
the way she . . . her . . . physical . . . her demeanor
intriguing . . .
her hair white grey, grey white, coarse strands
short cut, cut short
combed with a feminine flair
i gauge that it stays put,
no matter the humidity, slight breeze
or her posture
she gazes about indiscreetly
reaches into her grey leather purse, digs a bit
grabs a cool pack that’s a silver lined
leather bound cigarette case
taps out a slim cigarette, can’t tell the brand
doesn’t matter because i’m intrigued
she’s got some kind of killer charisma
deftly lights it with a bejeweled,
probably rhinestone lighter
who cares, it may as well be diamonds
they would fit her
she’s not pretentious
i can tell, just by the vibes she exudes,
just sayin’
drags inward inhalation of tobacco
its scent, odor, . . . fragrance of it in this clean morning air
is pleasant, intoxicating in a sultry sense
makes me wanna ask her for a hit
or maybe even my own
or strike up a conversation and ask her
if she knew betty davis or maybe even doris day
instead i fixate as discreetly as i can on her bodily movements
she’s an elderly girl;
she’s a girl and i’m a girl watcher
she makes the younger ones look weak,
puts them to shame
i recall hearing the click of the cigarette lighter closed earlier
mesmerized by the sound as i look at her,
taking care not to stare
i look at her peripherally, but careful not to stare
i look at her, but not at her; i look at her clothing
her style, i feel her aura
i think maybe she knows i’m watching
a lady her age knows, feels, senses things like this
probably knows i’m looking, trying not to stare
her nails are long and natural
pretty sure positive they’re real
a hot red lacquer and they match her
wiry, thin, and spry frame
she’s sporting a trim fitting levi cut style jacket
a pastel yellow, almost creme hue
with green embroidered rose vines,
two or three roses run the length of her almost flat chest,
with pastel pink and bright pink centers
two pockets, left and right, with brown tan buttons
gold earrings drop and sparkle from her slightly large ears
they match the jacket’s color, though brighter
her sunglasses and blue jeans are a slim fit
for a slim chick
looking casually comfortable, loose but tight,
makes the oxymoron fit
it all goes with the immaculate white socks,
exposed from ankle to mid shin,
beige shoes, loafers with white thick laces
who is she? where’s she from? who’s her partner?
lover? husband? friend?
Alone?
she’s waiting for her car
just like me
hope it takes a while
she’s a classy lady,
her red fingernails come alive
they make a sudden flick
and jettison accumulated cigarette ash
she pulls out a cell phone,
pecks at it with a black pen stylus
her head’s tilted over, downward gaze at her phone
blood and gravity make her lower lip bulge a bit
she’s still cool; it goes with age,
skin tone or lack thereof,
connective tissue elasticity loss, y’know
it’ll happen to all of us,
love overlooks things like this
under that jacket is a white soft textured turtleneck blouse
her hands are thickly veined,
the right hand grasps the pen
tightly and steady, no shaking, no twitching
i just noticed a gold watch with a rope bracelet design
for a wrist band
the face of it is large, about the size of a half dollar
with jet black crisp characters,
its face is upturned, on the bottom of her wrist
she’s been pecking on her cellphone for 15 minutes now
and i don’t mind,
i’m wishing they don’t call out the owner of the lexus;
that would be me
i just wanna stare at her persona, demeanor
study her, . . . wish i could paint her with oil paints . . .
talk to her,
ask her about herself,
hear the tone of her voice,
is it high pitched, soft, low, or course,
like gravelly on account of her smoke
i won’t get to see her put the phone away
or pick up her belongings
or attend to her transactions . . .
and then they call out for the lexus’ owner
Dammit!