The Mating Season Poem by Richard George

Where have I seen her before?
In a crowd, you fool, or nowhere.
She makes you think of somebody
who once in turn reminded you
of some one else.
Daisy-chains, strangers all.

But very familiar,
the way she pulls her lips
back behind her teeth to smile,
dark blonde,
that side-tug of the hair.
It's amorous weather:

the first 70 plus of the year,
gentle Zephyrs.
She sidles up to me -
to bin her picnic.
For once in the calendar
I can entertain the notion

she has left me her telephone number.
In the little brown bag with two handles:
a serviette.
A banana skin.
The Cupids have stolen my wits.
Who cares.

'No' this April day is a kiss on the wind.