I am attracted to redheads with freckles, perhaps because the very first woman I noticed,
signalling that I had finally reached my awkward age, was one. Neither beautiful nor ugly,
she was the epitome of perfection, and all I wished for was to push her on a garden swing.
Decades later, I know it was bizarre to wait for a nod to follow her long silk nightdress.
If only she knew I seek a home—not a hotel room, now and then—where the bouquet
on the table is a humble cauliflower.