where the writers are

She was impressed and I was impressive
but I left her there, kissed but chaste,
pining and weeping in her father’s driveway.

I was off in a single bound, gliding, afloat
at treetop level on imaginary thermals
arms outstretched, blowing kisses and
waving a temporary farewell, eager to
return when she’d be less soundly grounded.

There was a parade downtown. I longed
to hover over the colorful crowd amassed
to watch the Dixieland Wildcats strut their
Creole stuff down Bourbon to Elysian Fields.