Generation Gap?

It was in a coffeehouse,
She dressed in her twenties,
With large breasts aplenty,
A generation away,
With much to say about her day.

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She wore a tattoo,
Around her sexy left arm,
Of barbwire charms,
Her blouse was strapless,
With youth of boldness.

Her blouse was screaming,
With young cleavage heaving,
Tattooed on each valley wall,
A broken heart on the left,
A tear of blood on the right.

Another tattoo,
At the small of her slender back,
A butterfly fully spread,
Her blouse was cut high,
So not to hide her golden tan.

In the middle of her navel,
Was a golden ring listing,
With a modest diamond glistening,
She donned hip hugger shorts,
Hung so low apparently free from gravity.

Just below her bellybutton,
Was a tattoo of a bee smile’n,
With a large stinger ribbed,
Pointing to her,
Young honeycomb.

Her shorts were tight,
And to my delight,
A full bush pressed to fabric,
In silhouetted light,
No underwear insight.

She has limbs of a runner,
Muscular thighs-muscled calves,
A double hourglass girl,
Of torso and legs,
With the most lovely curls.

She bought two coffees,
And walked my way,
Then stopped at my table,
With a impish look of play,
Then sat down a generation away.

“I think it is the brew,
That you like and I don’t mean,
To give you a fright,
But I was wondering,
What are you doing tonight?”

I took a gulp of the sultry brew,
And blurt out a word or two,
“I—I don’t have any tattoos,
No—no --nary a one,
To me that is absolutely no fun.”

“That’s cool,” was her reply,
“I have enough for two,
And more than willing,
To share with you,
My hidden tattoo.”

She took my weathered hands,
In her hands of spring-- I stammering,
“Nothing is pierced on this body of mine,
Except my heart scared of lost time,
From a girl or two almost like you.”

Still playing with my hands,
She looked into my eyes and smiled,
“I have piercings you haven’t seen,
But it is totally awesome and cool,
That you have taken inventory of me.”

“Look—you’re twenty-something,
And I’m twice your age,
With any boy you can get laid.
It wouldn’t take much,
But—I do love your touch.”

She started stroking my fingers tenderly,
Across the small table I smelled her femininity,
“Boys are boys that look only,
For their vain glory,
My tattoos tell their stories.”

“What in the world,
Could we talk about?
You’re a generation away,
You’re young and lovely,
And I am not—err—lovely.

“Beauty is totally in the eyes,
Of the beholder older poet,
Let’s talk about sex baby,
Let’s talk about sex,
Butterflies and bees,
Just you and me,
Under the heat of
A shady tree.”