Lunch TIme

Lunch Time

It's lunch time and I have
my favorite point of view;
the garage across the street.

Cars piled everywhere
and grease and oil
permeating the hot August air.

I wait for the show to start.
Calm down my beating heart.

You are sure that
his odor arrives
about five minutes
before he does.

But you forgave him
because it was hot out,
and he couldn't help but emit
some kind of funk.

Sweat gleaming on his forehead
bid round perspiration stains
underneath his heavy muscled arms.
You could see the heat swimming
around his heavy body.

Chiseled lean and long;
his arm span enough
to engulf and swallow
you whole!

You imagine that you
wouldn't mind the smell.

An old bandana gripped in his hand
frequently used and wrung
out a time or two.
Then stuffed back into his pocket.

Hands ready to start working again.
Legs positioned to anchor any load.
Right now he was bent over
the hood of an old Chevy,
and making it purr.

I envy that car and I
want to purr too!
Never minding the
rank of the stank.

But envisioning the denim covered flanks
of the powerful built man
giving an automobile
the touch I long to feel.

I do this everyday.
I know he knows I'm here
In the diner across the street.
In my favorite booth.

Same old tuna sandwich
and diet soda.
Magazine never touched
because the article across the road
is a much better read.