You peered over the wall, unannounced
and saw me, my face contorted,
in a book.
I happen to be beautiful, my tongue
fat and lips relaxed as I read.
You don't know that I write -
you, slicked back man
in the cubicle two aisles across.

Your eyes are as soft as my inner thigh.

You said 'Good Morning',
politely overlooking
my awkward form.
You had never bothered
saying anything before.

I'm sure there will be many other men
who will look at me like that
and think of me as you do,
and politely dismiss me
before I die
but I wish you hadn't.