Notes About The Poem
For Fortuitous Poetry Contest sponsored by Rob Carmack
Perfume Bottle
One score minus two, on my own,
a strange invitation to dine,
green behind the ears, all unknown,
Mrs. Johnson, how can I decline?
Why this interest she has shown?
In her world, wasn't I misplaced?
Rough and crude, just barely grown,
amidst her femininity and taste.
Among her furnishings and photographs,
my pulse raced. I thought, "this is it".
I've not heard this new way she laughs.
It feels sinful and illicit.
I felt her fragrant, silky touch,
while before me falling down
(as painted fingernails clutch)
her flowing hair and gown.
I can't forget the dim lit room,
dressing table, bottle of perfume.
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