He wants a girl who doesn't ask questions
and takes no for an answer. She should know
that how she turns her gams is just one
thing he'll be looking for. Booze makes him slow
sometimes; that's why he likes his women quick
as racehorses, to take up that gray slack
in conversations--molls who know the trick
of magically providing what he lacks.
They're hard to find--most simply wink and pout,
and drink and smoke too much. In fifteen years,
their looks long gone, their luck long since run out,
they'll blame their fool short-sightedness on tears.
They still won't see him, grinning through the smoke
of his Cuban, as at a private joke.
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