Hot and sultry,
Steam and sweat.
She is here,
I can feel.
She stands upon the porch,
Near the willow branches.
Still in her riding boots,
Crop and tack at her feet.
Her hair hangs unfettered,
on this breezeless eve.
With ice procured from her Kentucky bourbon,
She caresses her throat,
Melted ice mixing freely with the sweat,
Running unhindered to her opened blouse.
Her eyes are closed,
Her lips barely parted in small relief.
But they slip gracefully to a wicked smile,
At the sound of my bootfall on the bottom step.
Her eyes slowly open to reveal
The burning, jealous, emerald green,
That I have come to know so well.
She is a she-devil,
And I am lost.
From whence came the art: