There was a wind
winding down from star to sea,
whipping along eastern ranges,
whispering strange words in accented syllables,
a Romanian Shakespearean rag,
sometimes humming something from The Weekend.
Sometimes a muse must be answered.
There were scrubs worn in the imaging room,
fancy dress for after,
the hint of musk on curving neck begging for a sniff,
there was that kiss and caress,
fingers to skin – oh, baby, that skin…
And the whisper of cloth dropping,
the dropping clickety-clack of high heels along a wooden floor.
Sometimes a muse must be answered.
There were those words, foreign-accented,
challenging: querying and teasing,
a sip of gin, a taste of oyster,
the need to meet, greet,
and skirt along freedoms –
the glowing heart, the dark-eyed look.
Sometimes a muse must be answered.
Writer Moe 