Mama

You reach through the fog
to grab a little hand
and lead me across the street.

I see your sweet-smelling skin,
Cashmere Bouquet fragrant and smooth,
when passing the barely open bathroom door.

I love when your behind moves
side to side and the men’s eyes
follow, like hounds on the scent.

I love the perfumed scent
of your skin through
the tight wool skirts.

I love to hear your heels,
high, stiletto and black,
dance along the pavement.

Heads turn and sounds leave mouths,
but you don’t hear them.
I do.

My Buster Browns gallop to keep up,
but you don’t know that.
Mama, I love you.

1985

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