I saw the most exquisite pair of ankles
On the bus to-day
They were thick and round,
Not fat,
Not bony like most
ankles,
Nearly hairless and brown,
They were standing in front
of me.
Their shape considered intelligent design,
In its moulded
symmetry,
The calves tapered into fullness
Perfectly
sculpted
Excessive in neither fat nor muscle,
While below them
rested chubby feet,
Which spread out to wrinkly, brown toes
Finished by little pink toenails
And just a hint of an allusion
To the soft pinkness of the soles
Curled around the heel's edge
To peek up at me.
On one ankle,
A crease formed
When it positioned in a
way
With the knee above it bent forward
The ankle's excess
flesh folded in on itself.
It seemed an endless dark crease,
Breaking the smoothness of the ankles
Perhaps
But smooth,
nonetheless
And for a moment it captivated my gaze.
The ankles looked as though
They should belong
To a
depiction of Brahma
So was the height of their perfection,
But
instead
They were attached
To a short, chubby man
With a peppery gray mustache
In flip flops and shorts
Which
exposed them
In a most flattering way.
The rest of him did not agree
With his ankles' beauty,
And he chattered on with his strange friend,
Their laughter rising
up
Through the music playing
In my headphones.
I almost leapt up
To follow him
When he got off
But then
Thought better of it.
After all it was not him that fascinated me
I would only be
following a perfection
That was not mine,
And maybe was not
his.
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