It always happens the same way. She struts by, scantily clad, heavily made up, pancake, shoot, there's a whole IHOP on her face. You're beaming upwards in an instant, rolled into a dense lump, a bowling ball with fingers stuffed into the holes, see, hear no evil, a mucous marble borne away beneath fluttering, drooped low low as awnings, earth tone painted Garfield lids. Snatched by the passing glimpse, the mascara tinted twitch of an extra terrestrial eye. Deposited mere moments or days later. Time looped through a Revlon induced, crop circled Cover Girl coma where seduction has no beginning, no end, just the same face; the random glare of roving lights in the sky off a plastic smile though rigidly fixed in porcelain place, Kewkie complexion.
