She was the kind of girl who deserved
a matching set of luggage,
that’s for sure.
The way she moved in quiet whispers,
the grinding halt of her Philips head eyes
screwed tightly on the “Departures.”
She moved like a machine,
stainless and steel, with a nose that could
pierce any part of you it desired,
like the ghostly fingers of an ancient
Kung Fu master.
That’s what made her sexy,
yet all she did
was stand there at the end of the corridor
in a multi-layered top,
a pair of jeans with home made holes that
danced about her ankles,
a pair of innocent, sturdy flats.
But I could’ve cut her up with razor blade
fingers, snorted her in until
all that was left were her two
oversized, unmatching bags, with
no one helping her get where she’s going,
or on their knees begging her to stay.
Every Monday, GJC will be sharing a poem from John T. Trigonis, a local JC Heights resident, poet, writer, and coffee aficionado, in our Monday Musings.