NEAR THE FOUNDER’S STATUE

Buck naked. That’s what she was. On court square.

The law was called and came. The sirens blaring.

A drinking problem, someone said. Despair

for living here. Everyone was staring.

I would have too, I must admit, but not

to see the lovely shapes of her, the thighs

just thin enough, the curve of breasts, and what

should never be imagined by my eyes.

I would have wanted only her youthful face

I’ve never seen in photographs, to find

some recognition there, some whimsy-trace

of happiness the others cannot see.

Dutiful son, I’d try to glimpse her mind,

to know her, but without perversity.

appeared in The Café Review