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Fun Legs

Craig Kirchner

Vaguely, like in somebody else’s dream,
one of those strange cell-phone settings ringing.
No it’s the doorbell. Forgot we had one.
I slip on my Hyatt Regency robe.

It’s almost happy hour luv,
and you’re still in the sack,
you are so decadent.

Molly was a cuddler,
Winona Ryder eyes,
always with cashmere soft knit tops
that smelled like clean bed sheets
and fun legs in short skirts.
Fun legs was not mine,
my roommate Bernie coined it,
but it was perfect.

She was hot,
squirming on my lap,
telling me about her new guy

He doesn’t smoke or drink
and said he wouldn’t know how
to lie to me.
Something, huh?

She moved that twenty-something ass
just enough to add a whole new freedom
to the afternoon.

It’s like he can read my mind.
He’s deep and a little aloof,
not like you at all

Moving just often enough,
fun legs keep coming to mind.
I ask her if he has pointy ears and
says goodnight with a split finger raised palm,

thinking for sure there must be
a Vulcan in the hen house,
and knowing that an alien-like perversion
was quickly growing here at home.

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