Perfume

In the distance, from behind,
a short beige raincoat, headscarf, slim pants,
gesturing with a cigarette:
it is her style.

When she turns, the blonde hair, silvered,
cut chin-length, the ivory forehead,
the very same. And I keep on looking
though I know it isn’t she,
who might notice me at any moment and wave,
and I could hug her to me, feeling the legacy
of our two protruberant bellies kissing
and the lavender honey perfume of her face–

I still have the last box, Yardley’s Medium Beige,
the cardboard sides rubbed down
at the edge by her indefatigable
nose-powdering–

and how her husky voice would say
Put some lipstick on, darling. You’ll feel better.