On an oven summer night
I took a walk up Cupbard street
and there the liquor store
a bracing sight in the heat.
I shuffled in and bowed
artlessly in the direction of the counter.
My palette thrived when I approached
the wines: a bouquet of spices and flowers.
I statued there for half an hour
experting over the beckoning wines.
I felt a glare mounting my shoulder
when her glassy eyes filled mine
with something approaching attraction.
I moved aside to let her pass
and she moved as slyly as a stripling
who’d been caught cutting class.
I left without anything. Her smirk
stamped me with delirium tremens.
Her nose, her hair, her clavicle
were all perfect sevens.
I would have asked her number
but sometimes a man has to rush.
The swoon and scent of liquor store women
is often all too much.