The Pretty Girl I Saw at the Blacksburg Farmer's Market

You crossed
the street from the 711
to the farmer's market
with your friend, a
short girl with fake blonde hair,
just to make You look
that much taller
and Your
shoulder curls
that much
more like an old
but shiny
penny.

In the sunlight,
I could see Your
long legs, longer
than mine,
and they didn't shake
when You walked
because I assume
You ride a bike
when You're alone.

I said
in a low voice to
Ike:
"Man,
she's
tall"

"Who?"

And then You
blended into the
mulling
matrix
of monkey-faces
around all
the vendor
stalls.
I groaned:
"Never mind"

I went to buy hot peppers
and we had
both lost our companions
somewhere amongst
the eggplant and
woven garlic.

You stood in front of me
and upon
shifting weight
to Your left
leg,
You swung your
bronze rings around
to lay on Your
femininely wide
shoulder.
I admired Your
sloping, sculpted
nape
and Your
olive skin.
I felt a tinge
of envy for
Your inevitable
asshole of
a boyfriend.

You heard my
muddy boot
scuff on the
concrete
and glanced back.

For a second,
I saw You
and You smiled;
sheepishly I grinned, and
tipped my hat
from the fishhook.

You bought Your
hot peppers
(which I also admired)
and strode into
the countenance-crowd.
Your long legs
and hand-hewn
frame
fell away
behind
shrunken Asian couples
and hipsters
in offensive colors.

And now
I'm left to wonder
if You are a
good swimmer,
or if You
play
pool.

I think You
are the
apartment-near-campus
type.
But if you
own a car, I
like to think it's
a big, American-made
monster with a soft top
and bench seats.
One that You free-wheel around
sudden curves, without
power-steering,
as Your
copper curls and
brazen strands
fly carelessly in the wind.