Chopin

She’s got a tattoo just above her buttcrack,
it says Chopin.

The little bumps of her backbone
appear so sweet.

Her face must be on the other side of her head,
I fear.

Her genitals blossom in her shorts
with rectangular pockets in the back.

Her brown hair dances in the wind
in smallish waves.

I’d recognize those hips just about anywhere,
I swear.

When she turned the corner and disappeared,
I heard the silence of Chopin.