When I pass by a woman in the streets
and the fragrance of her perfume teases my nostrils,
it makes me want to kick off my shoes
and drift off the smell of her perfume,
a human kite of some sort
wafting higher and higher
as the strength of her perfume allows.

Later in the day, when the scent of her perfume
has waned, I will be forced to sail a few inches from her ears.
At this point I will be close enough to see
the faded birthmark on her cheek,
where perhaps her daughter had kissed that morning
before running off to catch the school bus.

And where now she rubs, as she sinks into deep thought,
and I wonder, since I've been flying freely for awhile,
if the Wilburs would be proud to see
the first flight without wings,
and without the burning of centuries-old liquids,
and the beginning of a love story
all at the same time.