Victoria stepped,
Into Woody’s; smelled like old wood,
And fresh turpentine
She walked up the aisle,
Picked up a can of orange juice,
A bunch of cilantro,
Looked at her reflection,
In the transparent Coco-Cola refrigerator
And turned behind to see,
The thirty something bearded man,
With light blue eyes and untrimmed stubble,
Staring viciously at her pale white thighs
And as he looked at her looking,
He turned back to his keys,
And pretended to jab in something important
Her shorts, were so sweetly short
And she walked up to him,
And billed her stuff
And some cigarettes
And walked out,
Biting her lower lip,
Answering some strange form of want,
Deep inside her

Tuesday went and so did Wednesday,
Victoria walked into Woody’s on Thursday
Her pale white thighs,
Moistened with herbal creams, and
Some other tropical delights
Her shorts, shorter than before,
Her nails conditioned, cared for,
Looking delightful in the autumn sun
She walked up, to the counter,
And saw a boy around her age
Eighteen, seventeen? She didn’t know
She pretended to have entered,
The wrong store
Whipped her hips around,
Stepped back outside

Thursday went,
Friday, Saturday, Sunday
And two more months after that
Victoria learned,
That her autumn lover,
Had traveled north

Victoria walked into Woody’s,
One winter Monday morning
She wore jeans,
Her hair undone, her nails,
Shabby and cracked in the cold,
Her face pale, and raw in celebration,
Of a pimpled landscape
Picked up the orange juice,
A bunch of cilantro
Billed her stuff,
And some cigarettes
Walked out into the winter sun
Her lips intact

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