Beauty

There must be a story in the way your eyes drop

to the breasts of that woman—her yellow dress

a thin stocking, holes for the head

and arms, fingernails tipped red.

You catch my gaze and blush. A man

attracted to beauty is a kind sight,

it allows for flattery, appreciation at best,

but it’s not in breasts paling against a quick mind

that a man finds solace, rather it’s in the way

she ties the laces of his boots

when his hands are broken

and he must walk out into the cold snow alone.