dancing babies
ruby-raven ringlets coil around humidity, soft swirls of silk, in the sweltering midwest summer sun she lies on her plastic lounge chair by the hotel pool, oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses shielding her sight like a burned-out movie star she scoffs at the threat of skin cancer as she bakes to her ideal shade of beauty... right leg bent slightly, left stretched, toes curling then relaxing ... and she doesn't sweat... she glistens... glows... radiates... meanwhile, he keeps watch from his ivory view-- a white-painted peeling wooden watchtower-- searching for his chance to rescue her: to save her from this stagnant gene pool, this dying town... he wants to be her knight in shining suntan oil... to carry her away from this place in the passenger seat of his rusted '73 pea-green coupe... but like Cruella De Vil in a scaled-down swimsuit version of her dead dalmatian coat, her heart is cold she has no love to give her life is like a bowl of half-eaten cherries; now she feels around blindfolded with bare fingers, finding only pits... she sighs, sits up, slips her size 8 feet into a pair of plastic sandals... wraps a towel around her waist and grabs her keys from the hot concrete... the ringlets bounce like dancing babies on her sunkissed shoulders as she quickly walks away
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