who's that lady?

days hold unexpected visitations in the course of everyday affairs, allowing for distractions off one's personal suit

she sat outside the car wash

on narrow concrete planter box rail

cool january morning mid day

bright sunshiny crisp clean air

people milling round

the lady’s probably 85ish

what they call elderly, 

past cougar nomenclature

no matter to me, i’m waiting for my car to be washed

she’s waiting for hers, alone

except for her confidence

her movements which belie her apparent age

her manner of cool, yeah, even 

sexy, glamour 

the way she . . . her . . . physical . . . her demeanor

intriguing . . . 

her hair white grey, grey white, coarse strands

short cut, cut short 

combed with a feminine flair 

i gauge that it stays put, 

no matter the humidity, slight breeze

or her posture

she gazes about indiscreetly 

reaches into her grey leather purse, digs a bit

grabs a cool pack that’s a silver lined 

leather bound cigarette case

taps out a slim cigarette, can’t tell the brand

doesn’t matter because i’m intrigued

she’s got some kind of killer charisma

deftly lights it with a bejeweled, 

probably rhinestone lighter

who cares, it may as well be diamonds

they would fit her

she’s not pretentious

i can tell, just by the vibes she exudes,

just sayin’ 

drags inward inhalation of tobacco

its scent, odor, . . . fragrance of it in this clean morning air

is pleasant, intoxicating in a sultry sense

makes me wanna ask her for a hit

or maybe even my own

or strike up a conversation and ask her

if she knew betty davis or maybe even doris day

instead i fixate as discreetly as i can on her bodily movements

she’s an elderly girl; 

she’s a girl and i’m a girl watcher 

she makes the younger ones look weak, 

puts them to shame

i recall hearing the click of the cigarette lighter closed earlier

mesmerized by the sound as i look at her,

taking care not to stare

i look at her peripherally, but careful not to stare

i look at her, but not at her; i look at her clothing

her style, i feel her aura

i think maybe she knows i’m watching

a lady her age knows, feels, senses things like this

probably knows i’m looking, trying not to stare

her nails are long and natural

pretty sure positive they’re real

a hot red lacquer and they match her  

wiry, thin, and spry frame

she’s sporting a trim fitting levi cut style jacket 

a pastel yellow, almost creme hue

with green embroidered rose vines,

two or three roses run the length of her almost flat chest,

with pastel pink and bright pink centers

two pockets, left and right, with brown tan buttons

gold earrings drop and sparkle from her slightly large ears

they match the jacket’s color, though brighter

her sunglasses and blue jeans are a slim fit

for a slim chick

looking casually comfortable, loose but tight,

makes the oxymoron fit

it all goes with the immaculate white socks, 

exposed from ankle to mid shin,

beige shoes, loafers with white thick laces

who is she? where’s she from? who’s her partner?

lover? husband? friend?

Alone?

she’s waiting for her car

just like me

hope it takes a while

she’s a classy lady,

her red fingernails come alive 

they make a sudden flick 

and jettison accumulated cigarette ash 

she pulls out a cell phone,

pecks at it with a black pen stylus

her head’s tilted over, downward gaze at her phone 

blood and gravity make her lower lip bulge a bit

she’s still cool; it goes with age, 

skin tone or lack thereof, 

connective tissue elasticity loss, y’know

it’ll happen to all of us,

love overlooks things like this

under that jacket is a white soft textured turtleneck blouse

her hands are thickly veined,

the right hand grasps the pen 

tightly and steady, no shaking, no twitching

i just noticed a gold watch with a rope bracelet design

for a wrist band

the face of it is large, about the size of a half dollar

with jet black crisp characters,

its face is upturned, on the bottom of her wrist

she’s been pecking on her cellphone for 15 minutes now

and i don’t mind,

i’m wishing they don’t call out the owner of the lexus;

that would be me

i just wanna stare at her persona, demeanor

study her,  . . . wish i could paint her with oil paints . . .

talk to her, 

ask her about herself, 

hear the tone of her voice, 

is it high pitched, soft, low, or course, 

like gravelly on account of her smoke

i won’t get to see her put the phone away 

or pick up her belongings 

or attend to her transactions . . .

and then they call out for the lexus’ owner 

D****t!