College Girls/Nikki Fine Lookalike

Nikki Fine Lookalike/College Girls

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

 

Possibilities without conclusions within reason, always.

 

Next to me in next to nothing, “Sorry about my mispronunciation, I am used to speaking French.”  Redhead from Ohio, Oh, Hi, oh…

Um…  Guten Tag!

 

Look, take account, not to stare.

All there, and something is missing.

Too early, am I dreaming?  Focus on the material, not what’s under it.

 

What kind of Yoga pants and mid-drift are in store for tomorrow?

 

I saw them skipping through the hallways as if no one was watching, their audience had no vacancy. 

No time for sauntering or talking. 

Walking past with an agenda, I was as the light beam that held me as people walked through it.

 

And they tell you to pay attention, as if you are obese at an all you can eat buffet.

Never today, I am spoken for in many ways.

 

Who did you want her to be, or how?

Was it true to your eyes?

Did your thoughts somehow allow?

 

One could take in tiny blond hairs just at the apex of her legs; thighs at rest, some under thread, some exposed to be what seemed like overhead-this vantage, a view from a seat, of her skirt.

 

Everyone in the class was too poetic; our professor was looking for something more literal.

 

(I thought, don’t take this argument to the streets.  I know a million people who are POETS, WRITERS, and AUTHORS.  THEY HAVE PUBLISHED BOOKS, you know?  They’ll tell you out loud to your face at introduction even before their passionate hand clasps yours for an initial handshake.

Trust me.  Go to any party in Uptown, Downtown, NE, fuck it, anywhere in Minneapolis, as proof.  You will see.)

 

Feet held below stubbled knees, in slip-ons sans socks, where thoughts get long, hard, and lost.

 

Bejeweled with bright rings and things-affixed shiny rocks, on silver-metal bands, held tight to each little finger, on her delicate little hands.  To her mouth, to the air, to her desk, they lingered, and then back again.

 

Is she Nikki Fine?  I don’t know.

That’s fine.

My mind playing tricks again, sitting in class.

I don’t mind.

 

We were talking Shakespeare as the time passed, Sonnet 18.

 

 

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