Apparently I smell. Or so they say.
Those women who are always on their guard
against my kind. They walk round, sniffing hard.
The scent might get lost on a rainy day.
It’s life or death. Imagine their disgrace
if perfume or a smoking cigarette
confuse them. And maybe, worse thing yet
scent-lost, they see a smile upon my face
and smile right back. It happens, and I flirt.
Some people say I have a deal of charm
What if they ran a finger up my arm?
And someone saw? Their name dragged in the dirt.
Their sisters unforgiving of such slips.
Pus and hibiscus on three finger-tips.