He's not suspicious
in a rain coat. Forty
husbands in turned
up London Fogs loll
near the rubber
plants close to the
purple and jade
fountain. But only
Jack drifts into
lives of teenage
girls with their
mini skirts, their
tongues on pale
ice cream jump
starts his longing.
In the foodcourt
he watches light
gleam on the
Japanese cleavers.
The Polish sausages
swell and sizzle,
drip nearby, split.
He's off to Macy's
where the mannequins
without hair down
there or lips or a
nipple that moves
are flawless in their
quiet coldness
and sets out to turn
a woman with blood
and sweat and hair
ruining what he wants
to mold, will use
his fingers to make
voiceless, perfect
as marble