I was sitting at the singer/songwriter club
checking out the exit
as was often my wont
when this exceptionally beautiful girl entered,
dressed to the eighteens
(you know: to the nines,
but doubled?).

She was in tight pleather
high heels,
everything was shiny,
everything placed to impress.
Her face was gorgeous, too.
Made up within an inch of its life.
Fine stuff.

This was a woman
I would call in college
Too Hot Too Talk To.
Nothing has changed since college
except I don’t usually see women like that.

I was perhaps staring too much
or perhaps she was staring too much
for how could she not?
How often does she get the chance to see
the under six foot, chubby bald poet
in his natural environment,
leering and seething?
She must have been so excited to see me!

Which would probably explain why she sauntered over
to say, “Hi Jon!”
I did not recognize her.
“It’s Olivia.”

She was an old veteran of the Open Mic wars.
I hadn’t seen her in maybe six years,
certainly never made up like this!

“I would never have objectified you so
had I known it was you!”
I absolutely did not say.

We talked for an hour and listened to the music.
She was only in town to visit.
It was good to see her.
It was really good to see her.