Second season dating,
through vodka eyes
and weed-wise middle age
she wonders
if she could still touch,
perplex..
like the early rays of morning,
borne in loves first kiss.

He entered in a gust of gosh!
hopeful as a player
playing the long-ball game
and with a face she could have licked,
like Autumn;
a tad over-ripe
and berry punch red.
She wished
she hadn't cut her fringe so short
for it smacked of Magenta Devine,
black too,
as the darkest depths of winter.

Brass tacks
of blind daters
standing out
like newbies at the ice-rink
where you fall and if lucky look up,
relieved not to find any ceilings.

 
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