Wearing Your dress in the sandstorm:
Not one
for weather reports,
I wore my dress in the
haboob again.
Clutching at hems
and modesty,
I laugh in spite of myself.
The wind licks my thighs,
like a lover's tickling fingers.
The dirt catches in my lashes,
like the words get caught in
our throats.
Once again,
my skirt flies upwards
like doves released from cages.
Once again,
I let go of my wide brimmed hat
and wave good bye,
as it carries my ego with it.
Once again,
my ass and last clean pair of underwear
are our inside joke.
When wearing your dress
in the sandstorm,
bring a spare set of humor
to change into.
Not one
for weather reports,
I wore my dress in the
haboob again.
Clutching at hems
and modesty,
I laugh in spite of myself.
The wind licks my thighs,
like a lover's tickling fingers.
The dirt catches in my lashes,
like the words get caught in
our throats.
Once again,
my skirt flies upwards
like doves released from cages.
Once again,
I let go of my wide brimmed hat
and wave good bye,
as it carries my ego with it.
Once again,
my ass and last clean pair of underwear
are our inside joke.
When wearing your dress
in the sandstorm,
bring a spare set of humor
to change into.
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