Brimming from Weston cusp
shady eyes, arched brows
ensconced in denim folds
whitewashed dreams
borne by a Wrangler ego
bourbon-laced strains
exuding from profane lips
buckskin tread tracing the
lilac laces of a comely train
plastered over eggshell frame
parted by a coarse breeze
baring the silted template
of pretense, scorned love
still, the matador follows the scent
the sweet honey suckle drip
into the portals of wine and song
to drown his passions
with bawdy lines that coax
but never spark romance
in the hollowed soul
of a gratuitous vixen
who will share in seamly lines
but only pair with his bank notes