This day of joy,
my hot sun dreams,
many motions,
licking with yellowed fingers
the passing faces I hunger.
The strangers that I pass
look with soft eyes
and tired mouths
as they woo shop windows,
laugh with their children,
walk the mirage pavements,
while the city streets sing:
spring, spring.
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Praise to the love of woman
that I forget in careless days
spent in spasms of creation.
So women who have loved me,
kind or cruel,
a moment or longer,
with bodies, thoughts,
sometimes something greater,
for any reason, so many ways,
never getting more than fragments
of my begrudging self,
it is time to admire
your generous gifts.
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