PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She was a woman built in technicolor:

a vibrant Monet's parasol beauty in a miniskirt with

indecencies etched into her eyelids and the promise of
galaxies mapped out on her lips.

Tell them we died

in late evening while the band still lingered

over their cocktails
and rhythms slid like molasses
over moon-tanned shoulders and under stilettos.

Cinnamon wafted from her hair as she tapped a heel.
I imagined what my mother would say
and I suppose we gathered glances
like some do sea shells
and held them just as tightly.