There were three white teenage Lolitas–
14, 15, 16, somewhere in that
hormone-pressed corral– that
came into my work-place
to hide from a fellow that
had stared at them
dubiously.
"Well, we're closed.
The Peach Pit's done
for the day,"
I told 'em.
They pointed the alleged gawker
out to me across the street:
He was a good looking black guy.
And when the girls finally left, after
the man drifted further down the road,
I got a decent view of 'em.
The secret shudder of lust
in modern man's heart:
Skimpy t-shirts in 30 degree weather,
& ultra-tight jeans.
The middle girl's but
read Juicy.