Fiona
by Wayne H.W. Wolfson
She walks by.
I close my eyes and inhale. Next to a woman's voice,
it's always the scent.
Rules of attraction.
I
inhale.
I inhale her and it makes me want something
different. An exotic flower unknown to me. A rare
spice brought back from that distant land that lies
between sleep and day.
It’s the season of want. The fountains
are all draped with flowers, red flowers.
Red flowers must now appear in every
story. I promise her this over drinks. And laying
alone, in this moment, thinking of her, I vow to mean
it.
She’s gone.
A saxophone murmurs, looking for its
band. Flags hang off the stalls. Children let off
fireworks.
The flash through the closed curtain
is dull red. Our red covered by time and made less
bright.
There is a difference between appetite
and ambition, but both are harvested during the season
of want.
