Victoria's Billboard

Through dusty window blinds, I catch her staring at us
from the opposite side of the street,
the sultry model draped across a giant billboard.
Her dark eyes follow us across the hotel bedroom,
your hair under the dryer, my mouth brimming with toothpaste.

Her face is stern and slightly furrowed
as if to admonish me for having found her
in a private state of undress.
The hair that falls behind her exposed shoulder.
The line of her arm that ends between her knees.
The silk shadows of her bra pressing no mark
against her gold medal bronze skin.
Her contorted pose, so effortless, so clean.
Her curves are geometric dreams.

You ask twice before I hear you inquire about dinner.
In that worn and oversized white cotton shirt
we won last winter at some Irish bar’s quiz night,
you look hours from being ready to go out.

When I finally respond, it isn’t to answer you
but to tell you how beautiful you are.
The well of my jaw is full of paste and spit.
But I mean it just the same.