The nekkid ladies on Congress Avenue
are pinker than Rubens',
pinker than Fragonard's,
the deep deep pink of a
first-grader's bouncing pack
climbing David Street
behind her mother.
The nekkid ladies that bloom on Cannery Row
are not so pink,
but they nod demurely, sway
in the seabreeze
under a fitful sun,
colored like the mythic flesh
of Dora's girls.
There are tentacles writhing on the Aquarium
roof –
sea creatures
lithe as nekkid ladies,
pearl, yellow, coral.
They slap the sundown wind;
they wait for dark
to glow.
Nice imagery!
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