By John Grey
In the music aisle,
I'm thumbing through the latest heavy metal
while my errant right eye
watches a young girl
stuff a CD down her shirt.
She's attractive so there's something
romantic to this robbery.
I follow her around,
half suitor, half store detective.
She slips note paper down her pockets,
not because she needs it
but there's little else she could stuff inside
jeans so tight
and body honed.
She grabs a chocolate bar and
her soft tongue pokes through highly kissable lips
to suck it down
Underwear is prodded down her Y front.
Perfume seemingly launches itself
from display case to the depths of her pocket-book.
A magazine joins that CD
in territory my thoughts have long since mapped.
She heads toward the exit, done with crime for now.
And she didn't even resort to using
her long, yellow hair that could swoop up a man
so he'd never be seen again.
Or the slender hands that could touch anything
in any store
and it'd volunteer to go willingly.
Of course, as she tries to exit
bells ring their loud, insistent reality check.
And here's me madly in love
despite having seen the lie in close-up,
the cheating clear
and done up in a wealth of metaphors.
Funny how, the store's alarms trigger
ga('create', 'UA-22493141-2', 'auto');