To the woman in the white fiat
Your walk is a samba
I listen to some mornings as
I’m making breakfast
Tall and tan and lovely, you
Move as graceful as a
Sonnet
Maybe you’re not American
Maybe you’re French, Italian or
Greek
Beauty easily pulls its
Veil over my eyes
Like a samba, your hips
Swing with the rhythm of
The sea
You are a dream in white
Cotton pants
Moments like you come and
Go like the tide
But your face is the sun that
Never sets