The girl on the billboard staring at me
long hair, cone wrought bust, curvy built,
her clothes stylish – flawlessly tailored;
a skirt brief as a wink, long shapely legs,
black leather lace-ups with high heels.
She looks prettier than she did twenty years ago
when I went to prep, but not to my books pray,
but to a girl – my crush.
Then at spotting her, my heart pounded as though
I was a young proselyte before my deity.
Lately, folks say she’s all over town searching for me,
that she carries in her purse the love lines I wrote
and cowardly smuggled into her rucksack years ago.
How could she when she beholds me everywhere –
at intersections, at every magazine cover, I read?
How could it be? My cherished rhymes never
gained any scorn or laurel from her until now.
Endearment like stars must renew its luster
or face the worst fate: oblivion;
maybe, Caprice and women are intertwined.
Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala |Spilledwoords.org | 2020