Flavorful Ghost of Pink

The wanton thunder laps up
the silence.

Sweat from a world of
goals spills out over the street.

My skin is dry.

Oceans in my ears
receive cargo ships of lead.

Fishing in front of the shops,
the woman with
an unknowable face.

She is the only one
Who has an umbrella,
The only one who doesn’t
Need one.

I want her to speak a
language of breeze behind
my ear,
letting her fingers wander
over my shoulders then down.

The flavorful ghost of
pink will hover over us.

I have nothing to grip
but my body when her hands
dip lower
like cloth into a basin.