In Starbucks I watch men
not in the way they watch women
but like a callerless maiden wondering
what kind of application to create.

That man, suitor one, leers
through the steam invading the morning air
and over the brim of his coffee cup
at each shuffling skirt.
He's attractive.
I wonder if he looked at me,
and what I looked like through
his eyes and
the steam of his cup.

Suitor two, half-ignoring his wife,
looks over her shoulder
investigating where the heels of women lead,
heels, stockings, legs, edge of skirt.
What need of men urges them
to search for what they don’t want to find
but want to find?
The heels move and lead him back
to his wife’s face, to his wife’s eyes,
still telling a story
about mother and her new kitchen.

Suitor three lounges in the back
with a book, reading?
Eyes waiting for blouses
taut over chests to turn from hiding.
He ignores eye contact but
glances up to put a face with
the picture walking the runway in his mind.

I question if I desire callers anymore,
if my shape and form will get
any to view my resumé.