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The flap over our auntie the flapperA found box of pictures and the one that shows too much. Someone mumbles about having no business seeing this a privacy invasion by photos, into our dead aunt's past. Attraction was seamless fire in young eyes. Garter belt dangles on the back of her thighs. More of her is seen than a faux apron of perfect placed feathers and strings of pearls. Is that baking powder or flour on her nose? She vamps behind the set table with full sliced brisket a pot of potatoes, a basket of fruit and the platter of oysters She found a fresh way to fill any empty stomach or eyes. Hot boudoir posed pictures taken on cold granite counters. Biting her lip, maybe she worries all the spilled flour is too sexy? Was it her hair cut short, drove the bread-line boys wild to come run into her kitchen. Maybe it was her croissants? Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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