You’re calm in your element, like a coy fish among plastic Buddhas.
You strut with a lustful hip pop, eyes locked on mine.
You smooth your blouse and flash a faux smile.
Your tag reads Jessica,
saleswoman.
You cradle my hand with thin, soy fingers, barely curled, faintly thrusting.
You slide a pen from your glossy bun. “Let me know what you’re looking for.” You say. “I’ll be your
saleswoman.”
You lead me through the store on stilettos, on fibrous calves that writhe, clench with every step.
Your body says you’re a different kind of
saleswoman.
You make as much effort to defy as you do to flaunt, but with your shoulders pulled back,
you coax me to forget that you are only my
saleswoman.
You don’t know it yet, but I’m sold.