Surrounded by abundant perfumes
that coil and tempt the air,
I weave through the aisles of my shop.
The garden, in a veiled room of velvet curtains,
blooms with roses and violets reflected
in glass vases and tabletops.
A gentleman passes, and trails his finger
across a blushing orchid as another customer advances
toward the oleander on a pedestal.

A dropped spade attracts no eyes,
so I swish my long silk skirt across the floor,
and push the neckline of my blouse
from my neck, toward my shoulders.
I attempt the confident stances
of the daisies and daffodils as I lift
my bared arm, and place my palm on a lace tablecloth
to pull it nearer.
The gentlemen gaze at the gently curved blooms
before them, and trace the long stems with their eyes.
I flex my back, tilt my hips, trying to seduce
like the lilies and lilacs, yet my crossed ankles
are no match for their overlapping petals.
I could only watch as the delicate
plants beckon with their smooth leaves
and glinting skin until gentle hands curl
arounds their stems, and eager eyes
smile.

Here, in the shop of flowers,
no one is looking at me.