You were crossing Twelfth at Ash on Friday afternoon. I waited on that languid strut, making left in white truck. You glanced back, hard stare. I ogled. A perfect peach bottom in distressed denim. Flyaway hair the colour of unpasteurized honey. You rubbernecked, twice, all come-hither. I came back round, but you were gone. I'm the bespectacled bearded driver, swarthy. I'm what you want.