Fishnet Stockings By Paula Hayes

Sitting in a Panera 

I cannot help but notice 

A young woman 

I would guess twenty-two 

Short hair, brunette

Strong shoulders 

Not even slouching those shoulders 

Sitting cross-legged 

Her life is a slit 

Perky and perched like a pelican 

In a booth that could rival the 1950’s  

With what appears to be her boyfriend

Or girlfriend

To be honest I cannot tell

And why should it matter? 

It doesn’t to me 

Tidbits of her conversation

Float in the air 

Past adrogyny and non-binary lovers

Past, present, and future 

And find its way in a bubble of air

Over my head

Awkwardly hanging there

Like some uninvited guest at a dinner party 

Forcing me to listen 

To the intimate parts of a life 

That I don’t know 

She has started therapy

And she has PTSD

I can relate to that 

But it is her legs 

How white they are 

Beneath her black fishnet stocking hose

That remind me of punk

Except I don’t know punk

Her legs could be The Clash

Or Dead Kennedys 

Her waist is Nico

I saw this woman once in a Velvet Underground video 

If this had been last century she would been co-opted 

Made in Andy Warhol's Factory of stars 

With a mint julep, some speed, a hand, a mop of hair, a sheepish grin 

Her legs are a whole genre 

Of lattice work and ripped holes 

I catch myself marveling at how those legs 

Disappear like some kind of 

Exciting mercury like a melted Salvdor Dali clock 

Falling off the edge of a precipice 

Like a drop of ecstasy licked off in a rave 

Or a pinprick of blood of pinky swears and forever friends 

Into her black combat boots

With its two inch tread and lace-up hooks

Boots that have doubtful ever seen more than the inside of hallways 

And no war crimes 

Well, anyway, life is too short

She says repeatedly

Then pauses to make sure her partner

Is swimming in the pools of her eternal need to be 

The center–just the center

Of what? It doesn’t matter, just the center! 

Maybe the center of a tootsie roll pop for all I know! 

And then your family doesn’t have to worry

Her words continue to float a little closer

But I am more concerned 

About her dove white blouse ruffled and tucked in

Beneath a gigantic oversized black belt 

Make her look like black and white cinema 

About how all those ruffles can stay so perfectly in place 

In a night caught between Spring tides and whatever else is on its way 

And I don’t know if she is wearing any pants

But why would she even need to 

I don’t know it upsets me, her voice sings 

And draws in exactly no one but herself

Her lover

And a random stranger like myself

How torn one can be inside 

Spaces where everything laps 

At the desire to be understood by some other 

As she mentions the word relapse

I think about how many women I know and don’t know 

Who live day-to-day on the edge of a stark realization

That they need recovery, from anything

From their own life, even or more

But like a far off orgasm 

Beguiling, but never quite reaching it 

Yearning for something more 

Paula Hayes is a poet hanging out in Memphis, the same town where the ghost of Elvis hangs out. Music imbibes her soul so it seems a natural fit.