Wall of Pervs
We were renovating five floors downtown,
office space in the Atrium Building,
and at noon, all the trades
took the passenger elevators down
to eat lunch, on the street.
More than a hundred construction workers
that spring and summer, sat down on the edge
of the veranda, out front,
facing the sidewalk, all along 4th Street,
from Main down to Sycamore.
The office women shed their winter coats and
we could see their endless curves again
bouncing within their blouses,
their haunches loose, then shifting taut
again as they strode on by.
And for every quivering,
wobbly peach in yoga pants,
we hurried down to gawk
while chewing some basic boloney
and cheese or egg salad sandwich.
‘God damn,’ said DC. ‘I’d do that.’
‘Thick,’ said Wade.
Big Dummy just stared.
‘I’d eat the corn out of her ass,’ said Griff.
And while most the guys talked discreetly
to the persons next to them,
Pretty Boy stood and whistled at a
young blonde in a pink dress and heels.
‘Come on, man. You can’t do that,’ I said.
‘What?’ said Pretty Boy.
‘These women aren’t dressed to sex you.
They work here. They’re dressed to feel confident.’
‘Shut up,’ said Wade,
‘She knows how she’s dressed.
And if she didn’t want you to look
she wouldn’t be showing it off.’
‘Well, she ain’t dressed like that for us,’ I said.
‘You don’t think she’s hot as fuck?’ said DC.
‘Go sit somewhere else,’ said Wade,
‘You’re ruining my fantasy.’
I couldn’t argue with them, and then
Herb summed things up: ‘My girlfriend walks
by here with her coworkers sometimes,’
he said, ‘They call this the wall of pervs.’
‘Do they, really,’ said Wade.
‘Yeah,’ Herb said, chuckled.
‘Oh well,’ said Wade,
‘I guess they’re right.’