Matching Set

March 20, 2017

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.

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