Late Summer 1973
Women in cocktail dresses
feign interested politeness
as their men wheel and deal.
She glides into the room
like honeysuckle vine,
conquering in full bloom:
black leather knee-high boots,
a mini-skirt, stretch-lace body shirt,
and hair down to here.
Every man’s head swivels
and feminine radar
sounds an alarm.
Her flirting is like
skin or green eyes
or breathing.
The guys fall hard
and she’s not even
beautiful.
The pulse of the room quickens
as a whisper of turmoil
stirs the air
feathers
have been ruffled,
and all she’s done is walk in.