A Black Girl at Walmart

rounds the isle, absent a bra-
strap on her glistening shoulder,
sable silk astride mesmerizing
swaggerous curves, like Hwy 1
with its beckoning turns reaching
deep into the soul of a man,
daring him to drive fast.

Behind the wheel, we are all young,
but, like a sad mirror, she pulls
her cart to the side, murmurs
"Sorry mister", allows me pass by,
careful not to get too close
to a man old enough to be her father—
raised-right-heartbreaker.