“Montreal is romantic,”
A woman said to me.
True enough but not in sheets
Of ice or wrapped in snow.
Once I couldn’t find my car:
Drifts covered it for weeks.
A long-legged Ukrainian
With strong hands and heat
In her breasts
Helped me dig it out.
I fed her coffee and crepes,
Plied her with wine and cheese.
South brewed in me
As Easter snow fell.
I left before June.
No Northern woman could hold me.
I wanted a Florida woman,
All avocado and lime,
Lithe as the horse she rode,
Both elegant in their skin.
A plume of heat,
She grew to gale force
As her pressure dropped,
Then blew herself out to sea.
I take her heat with me.
It drives my trade
Through latitudes of fields,
Swamps, mountains and shores.