Her eyes are not set off by neon pink
Nor hangs her steamed style on hammock white.
Yet her quiet smiles drive falling to the brink,
And madmen praise the bougainvillea night.
Her limbs are not enhanced by city lights
Nor does her fire hot firmaments consume.
Yet her straight stare engenders sage delights
And binds compunction in a gentle room.
Her hands are nothing if not long and small:
They grasp not, rather dance, charm, float and sign.
Yet in her hold holds she the best of all
And thus completes her slipper and design.
No leather lady's papered pleasures, she's
More than myth because she's lacking these.