No Gentleman

One Saturday morning matinée,
Howard's contraption kept
Jane's assets at bay.
I felt a tingle deep inside.

Caring not for Miss Monroe,
or a still more pneumatic
Jane, others stirred me even though
I wasn't - then - sure why.

And next Sophia, Claudia and La Lolla
or Capuchin for exotic change,
got me simply hot and bothered
by I didn't know what.

On the screen, in the dark,
they stole my heart
and other parts.

Or Margarita Carmen Cansino
at cocktails with a big-time hood,
on a sunny beach in Malibu,
making me dream of Hollywood

mornings under the covers.
Then came pouty Jeanne Moreau
shaming all the boring others'
fresh-scrubbed, nordic, beach-girl glow.

Alfred's cool sophisticates
may have over-excited him,
Tippi, or Rainier's ice princess,
neither quite like blowsy Kim,

a brunette manqué perhaps.
Even now they cure the blues:
no Camerons or Lindsays though,
just wistful thoughts of Penelope Cruz.