Perfume Bottle
She kept her scent in the refrigerator
off and on upon the rack of Chenin Blanc,
or, in the door, with grey poupon and sour milk
where it, perforce, would topple upon the floor
when opened with any gentle, manly force.
At times, it would be lost among the yellow
golden citrus within the crisper drawer
or, it lurked, disguised behind an OJ carton
pretending to be a jar of marmalade:
so way, way beyond the ken of him to find.
And yet, with her, a flick of the door, a spritz
of Jasmine, gardenia, basil, orange, peach,
which pursued the flowing silken scarves she wore.
“Come, let’s go, we have a party to attend.”
She’d say, “What are you staring at, my sweetie?”
Just an empty perfume bottle, by the milk.
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