On Those Hips

 Bring on those hips—
the ones a man can rest a hand on,
guaranteed it won't slide to the ankle,
those glorious filler-uppers of jeans and skirts,
those detours of eyes and focus,
those saddles for lust and infants.

Walk those hips across this room—
behind, beside or in front, 
just bring them on,
side to side as they go:
metronome of mankind— 
more profound than breasts, neck or ankles;
paint brush and palette for desire's portrait.

Hers?—distinguishable from across a river 
and through the years.  Bring'em slow,
allowing the moment to last.  Pause, turn,
talk to the room of faces, 
passing hellos and polite smiles
 and weave them through the rest 
step by steady step.

But please, please, please bring
those God-blessed hips 
to these empty hands.