Crown Books on Wabash

They all gather,
these wizened
platinum-wigged
made by Duane Hansen
kewpie dolls

as if by appointment
in high-heeled
Burberry coats
toting monogrammed
Yves Saint Laurent
handbags

and crowd outside,

with Gucci clad
five carat diamonded
classy chassis
in anticipation

along with jet-black
Belmont Avenue
Madonnas,

and teenybopper
Noxema girls
assigned to read either
Milton or Chaucer,

the huge plate glass window

facing the magazine rack
every Monday
and Wednesday
sometimes on Tuesday
and Thursday

just to gawk at
(swoon for and salivate
drooling wet pools,
lascivious horny after)

Mo,

who is,
pound for pound,
the strongest guy
we know

bent over
from the waist

alias little mang,
Stellar Mo D.,
Stubby Mok,
Ricardo "Ricky",
yellow dog,
Red Pole,
Studdley Beduddley,
chump-stump-abino.

He is
Mr. Horizontal,
international
sex symbol,
man
with a thousand legs
Centerpeed,

his legs
squatted apart
like a Colossus of Rhodes
or the Jolly Green Giant,

small man,
Rican (Reekin'),
Slo-Mo
Eetsy Beetsy,
Itsilbitsular,
Car Key
Carlton Speed Limit Arm
Unc Jemima
(because he waffles)

faded painted-on Levis
worn out white

expose firm buttock,
pure marble
sculpted
by Michaelangelo

dimpled round,
perfectly proportioned

who
every summer
changes not color
but nationality

ripping open
new bundles
of Vogue

oblivious,
another David.