Standing in the soft, washed out light she looks

like a memory he would be better off forgetting.

As he watches, the sun, the breeze, the hem of her skirt,

they all caress the flesh of her thigh like a menagerie of lovers.

He can’t help but envy them. The last time

he knew what it was to touch youth he was young himself.

The way she stands there, with her back arched,

makes him imagine her old enough to wear

the naked posture of maturity naturally.

But when she throws back her head, laughing carelessly,

the purity of innocent zeal shines through.

The wind wisps tendrils of her hair toward

the boy standing mesmerized beside her.

He sees himself in the boy; awkwardly, fervently

in love and lust with the Lolita on his lawn.

And calling him in to dinner, when she turns

and smiles gaily over her shoulder,

he subsides into the baby blue eyes, so much like her mothers.