Girl on the train

She plops down in the light rail seat
As if she owned it,
Blonde hair drooping over
The back of the seat
As she takes out her compact
To make up her face,
Every male in the train car
Trying desperately not to look at her
When it is clear that’s exactly
What she wants
As she progress to re-stain her lips,
Not red, she’s not that blatant,
A shade of pink that matches
Her fingernail polish
And her mascara thickly painted
On her eye lids,
Men stirred up and reluctant to leave
Even when the train reaches their stop
She waits, as patient as a Buddha
Until her stops arrives,
Popping up the way she’d plopped down
And in her super short supper tight shorts
Makes her way off the train
And down the platform,
A slow, steady, uncomplicated march
Which is witnessed by all,
Especially men, some in hard hats,
Turning completely around
As she and then cross the tracks
In opposite directions,
An awe she is perfectly aware of,
Yet does not acknowledge
A queen bee among the drones
Who feeds not on honey,
But their adoration,
Vanishing finally
Into the doorway of a coffee shop
She has also taken possession of.