Posts Tagged ‘1966’


After her shower

she writes a poem

in the condensation on the mirror,

then watches it evaporate.


It was all about the fragrance –

the coconut

in her shampoo,

the rose water on her face.


She remembers what he liked –

Emeraude and Chantilly Lace

while he wore English Leather

which drove her over the edge.


They’d dance past the chaperones

and steal away to his car,

Lou Christie on the radio

and lightning striking twice


and later in her room alone,

his scent still in her hair

the poems would magically write themselves

in the silk dust on the mirror.



©  2020  Betty Hayes Albright 



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