Femme Fatale

Femme Fatale


Her legs still stinging
from a fresh, close shave,
she pulls her black
leather slacks
over her calves,
thighs and buttocks
like a surgeon


popping latex gloves
for snugness.
A brew of intellect
and sensuality,
blended to perfection,
simmers in the cauldron
of her skull.


Her full lips,
tainted with the musk
of Camels,
adept by turns
at kissing
or the flawlessly
cadenced utterance


of complete
Shakespearean sonnets,
smolder beneath the grease
of crushed cherries,
each strategic
bat of her eye
the meltdown of prudence.


Larry D. Thomas

Posted over on Radiant Turnstile