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there was one reason once
to dress that way:
to court a man –
to cultivate our gaze
unless we were shut out in a regalian haze.
or poor. then our cousins would do.
maybe that went for royalty, too?
now there are two:

to promote personal empowerment
by dressing sexy –

feeling sexy; looking sexy;
the sexiest one of all
in a sexy sea of sweaty, sexy steam
as far as the eye can see.
even widow-peaked Peter Gabriel could feel that heat.

now there are thirteen-year-olds named Melanomia
wearing chokers

sunbathing after school,

legs crossed on her girlfriend’s deck like it’s a Victorian sunroom
waiting for a suitor –
glaring at me like she’s mystified
just what that creepy old man is staring for.
“your parents let you leave the house like that?”
sure they do!
“dude, that’s her Mom pulling up in that pink Bronco:
the one who named her daughter after a skin abscession
because a great-grandmother survived a cancer?”
she gets out of her tank in full-view,
in pants so tight
that her widget must be black and blue.
“bad pants phenomenon” is a real thing, you know.

our male aggression still exists
in a society of regression
while the new generation fights for digression.
even the poor have access to Instagram sessions.

//jf 9.13.2021

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