Not collecting

Shells   There is a certain satisfaction in the joy of not collecting,
Shell upon shell and each more lovely than the last.
I think of women in the city in summer tops, loose breasts,
Full and ripe, just a touch of sweat beading on the nose.

They stride across 3rd Street purposefully erect,
And look you in the eye as if to say, “I’ve got what
You want,” as they toss their hair in the heat and smile.
Shell upon shell and each more lovely than the last,

And we just smile back and look upon their uniform lines
Spaced perfectly, marking nature’s own perfection,
The work of a million, million years lays at my feet,
And I think of you and your perfect teeth.. and growl.

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About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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