turkish men

at the bazaar where they sell fruits and veggies, bread and clothes and whatnot,
where i drove grandpa -minaluscu we call each other, yes he invents words, it runs in the family-
there are all kinds of men, old, young, fat, slim- sitting around, selling their stuff.
there are all kinds of men who lust after anyone out-of-the-ordinary
who give you their case-specific, intense looks. after all, isn't it all they have, from where they sit, the power of the gaze is your weapon.
a young, dark-skinned one-
an older, fat one with a white moustache, you look like a sea-lion mister.
i go around carrying plastic bags filled with peaches, apricots
with a mini-skirt not so right for the occasion.
the reason is, and i thought about this;
i don't really care. all those men, sit there and staring is all they can do- the capacity to act is limited to that.
my legs, i use them to walk and sit and swim.

if anyone can get any tangible benefit out of looking at my legs,
well, i guess we call them turkish men.