The Agenda Was Hiding Gender

A person, I thought a woman,
Side-stepped into a row of seats…
A few rows in front,
But without the usual gender clues.
A shapeless jacket taken off,
Back to me,
Showed a loose black sweater
And belted black pants,
A pony tail,
Long and white and hippy plain
And held with a black elastic band…
Escaping strands
To mock fastidiousness.
Not a softness of blush or polish or paint…
Could be her, could be him.
So I listened for a voice
And waited for a turning, back to front
For definitive clues…
A turning, but none.
Then a concert program dropped
And bending down…a sensual sway…
Her sweater immodestly moved beneath,
Woodstock free.
And wondering done, I checked my stare.