Practice

The color of your skirt shows

 the rules of society were upon you

       in the mall, and you smeared them on the wall,

scraping the black ink across the hall.

          Short is just a word that leads to

Your cinnamon revealed thighs,

            That upon turning, left or right,

 have made men’s senses disappear from sight.

                Uneven red and white colors

              shaded factions above your knees,

                    spectacular Red Sox still making men hit the floor,

       calculating their defeat at the outpost,

                          then losing their eyes when you leave the store.

But years of practice staring at blank silver handles,

                      Removes you from the galaxy’s space,

        A green army has been sent to save men at the mall today,

               Lost in the heat of your pace,

  But my practice in turning right angles erased

       You, if only the memory could be so easily scraped.