the many scents of the flowers
on Pearl Street this morning
are intoxicating to me
as I walk south,
heading to the water;
after Water Street,
a hundred yards from the harbor,
their delightful aromas
give way to the smell of salt,
and then, in the harborside park,
the wild roses
and the cedars
mingle their enticing smells,
overwhelming me,
as I think of her:
fiery eyes dancing a bossa nova,
lips full and pouting out a kiss,
her body languid, yet fluid,
in repose, but ready
like a sleeping cat
of the mouse chase.

June 17, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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