Couth as an old mule
Her brandished heels
Recede hastily toward
The horizon.
White as a swan’s back,
Those dainty feet,
A connoisseur’s dream.
Their delicate patter
Sent up plumes of dust
Like a phoenix mid-revival.
What hope has love
When dreams desensitize?
*
Her suitors stack
Themselves together
In interchangeable rows
One man’s face
Another man’s behind.
Suitcases bursting,
Mostly socks.
*
How she longed then
For the love of a good woman
For a conversation
Without the implications
Of that bitter stem.
Who could blame her retreat?
*
Though these bridges
Go up in flames
I can still ferry
The waters beneath them
She thought chewing
The inside of her sleeve
To dislodge
That disreputable organ
Which had come
Upon her so often
As a trap.
*
I am going to be quite busy the next few days so I may not get the chance to write I will have to see.
mindlovemisery 
Yes, I’m intrigued by that organ disreputable!
hehe thanks Leovi
This is very profound and thought-provoking: “Though these bridges
Go up in flames
I can still ferry
The waters beneath them”
I am so happy you liked it!
Great piece Yves. Have a good break.
Thanks Laurie no break just so busy and not sure if I could pull it off