Cleaning Required (Or Not)

You said I was looking down your blouse;
it was your pony tail,
that flopped from the back to the front,
when you bent over to get something from your bag.

It looked like a tilted fountain of hair
streaming strands in a carefree circle,
suspended
on filaments of shadows and light.

Of course when you questioned my gaze
I couldn’t believe I’d let such an opportunity pass.
I’ll promise you this: if your shirt should be
so risqué again,
my eyes will be tracking in dirt from my mind,
hope it won’t be too hard to clean.