JUST WHEN I THINK THERE IS NOTHING
There is always something on my tabula rasa
like buns of steel and budding breasts walking by
with perfectly formed puckered lips waiting to be kissed—
or the scent of new mowed hay after a sun-shower
when a city guy and the farmer’s daughter take a nap—
or the sky filled with clouds so white they look like
they’ve been freshly laundered—or a stroll
on a cobblestone roadway that rings
with a remembered sound of the clip-clop
of the milkman’s horses—and, I can always
return to my rose, the queen of my garden
who never fails to draw my nose like a magnet
to inhale her succulent aroma that cripples me
with as much pleasure as polishing off a magnum
of Piper-Heidsieck champagne.