Riding the Subway in Seoul

Each toenail a different color,
painted perfectly, some with sparkle,
her feet stand awkwardly on cork platforms,
rocking at stops: Seolleung, Yeoksam, Gangnam.
If those aren't hose, her legs are made of milk.
Except in crossing, the thighs will never meet;
they disappear behind a pleated skirt, beige and short,
into which she's tucked a crisp, white blouse
(there are insufficient adjectives for this),
the waist at best, twenty inches...nineteen?
Up the blouse's buttons, she stares into a phone;
Samsung, of course, as black and shiny as her hair.
Her other hand holds a subway strap, and...uh, oh.
Our eyes meet,
hers without a K-pop smile.


August 2014