She occupies her table
as a queen does her throne
red nails on white china
eyes flicking over the masses
as they pass by by.

Let’s ask her to disrobe.
Take it all off, we say.

Start with the boots – soft polished leather
made in Milan, bought in New York,
the elegant black cape
purchased in London
last winter.
The silver beads that circle her neck
a steal from a stall
in Morocco.
Oh, she’s been around, this girl.
Wipe off the makeup – French, duty-free
Strip off the stockings, just locally bought.

Not a lot left?
Oh yes. We’ve just started.
That coffee, that café au lait
a pretension from Paris.
That below-the-breath laugh
as the waiter slips up
from her great uncle Joe.
That razor-sharp wit (or cruelty)
from her first lover,
a decade older
than her 17:
they all go.

That tone in her voice
when she asks “will it be long?”
apologetic yet stern:
an echo of her mother
she can’t quite suppress.

That sudden start
as a redhead walks by,
broad-shouldered, blue-shirted.
She nearly jumps up
but it’s not him.
Again.

The measuring sweep of her eyes
over female forms
each better or worse than her own
put in its place
(first learned at high school and never shaken
unlike trigonometry.)

Peel all these back
leave them on the polished café floor
and what’s left?

In the naked body of a newborn
stretched and plumped and expanded in odd places
skin thickened and creased with use
but pure once again
she walks out into the autumn sunshine.

at last! no, not an acceptance. man, that would be too much to expect. but a positive rejection from a proper, respected and respectable literary magazine edited by a real poet. it says:

"Sorry - some nice work in these poesm - but perhaps not enough 'showing' & too much 'telling.'Try again."

hey, that's pretty good considering the blank noes I've been getting. and it was for three poems I wrote recently, including one I really quite like. so I'll clean up at least that one and send it again, and take the Real Poet's advice on board.