Cinderfella

Standing in the wings, on the periphery

of your cultivated world, inhibited only by

station and space, my head spins

into your orbit, my eye lids twItch nervously,

my  titillated ears vibrate, my hands tremble,

inner being disassembles, kneeling in deep

contrition, my flattering pose,  covered by

plebian skin , without merit or standing,

not in your cognizant purview, goes unnoticed.

Straining to capture a meaningful momento

of her regal essence, if but a quick glance,

token gesture, two or three words spoken

in jest, but, alas, no comely features with

which to attract even a passing stare

Shriveling in her presence, my net value

laid bare, on my crown, a matted toupee,

a disheveled mound of bristled fibers,

no sterling jewelry to sparkle in her

turquoise eyes, on my wrist, a cheap

sports watch with a plastic band, my

colloquial speech contains no majestic

refrain, her delicate drums to tap, no

rhythmic cadence, her cochlear bands

to serenade, enwrapping my taut

form, the trappings of a commoner,

no velvet suit or silk cuffs, her refined

fingers to address, no cashmere

slacks, only a stiff pair of unpleated

Dockers to brush up against her

glimmering, polished legs, but at

my lowly base, a pair of Dolce &

Gabanna wingtips, exuding a waxy

shine, casting an enthralling glare,

a magical spell with which to cloud

her discerning eyes, and to disuade

her genteel mind. With one lengthy

stride, I introduce my intentions, her

condescending eyes now peel away

my pretentious threads, and, with an

outstretched hand, beckons me to

her side, presses me against her

throbbing bosom. The lurid dance

begins, ending only after the darkness

filters the gloss of my wingtips from

her dilated eyes.