I miss the Scent of City Girls...Edit 4 thanks to all

[tectak]

Hi TT this is my first read of this and what a delightful read it was very strong descriptive lines bring the whole cameo alive and I like the way the focus moves in and out from rooms to facial details, theres not much I dont like, The repeat works well and its not overdone and comes across as a celebration of the city girl rather than a sad look back, which I also like. just a few points below.

I miss the scent of city girls: cold nights,
dark streets, fast food, gas lights. Fast food v gas lights could confuse old v new maybe takeaway's and gas lights. Your poem
I like the girl who wraps herself
in a thick-cloth coat and a woolly hat,
that hints of coffee and polluted air
and if you  kiss and draw her in
her whole day lingers on her breath; lovely descriptions
milky latte, quickly taken,
emotive  as  a moist, warm breast
exposed to chill night wind. night wind sounds bilious, night air?

I miss the risk of misconstruance; Mis ris mis sonics work well here
that slipping, cautious, certain sign
from  one shared  cigarette.
You light two, she takes one…
but she  does not inhale.
Open mouthed then lips tight pressed,
white pleasure swirls and permeates.
You stop, for just one murmured moment;
a trick you know so well. You draw her close.
She lets you take  her round the waist.
Her hair is in your face and you  suck deep,
draw back then gently place
your yearning cigarette between her lips.
Before the smoke has gone....a kiss.

And while the intimate exhalation swirls,
you slip  a hand, an arm, but slowly,
through her outer fabric shield.
Soft buttons pop, warm comfort yours,
and with a faintly wanton word,
she lets you in.

I like the switch from the night time exploits to the morning after.

I miss the scent of city girls,
that whiff of  baking bread and Danish spice.
The  city girl  who shares with “others”,
a flat above a  bakery, and wakes at four a.m.
as up through  loose, bare floor boards
comes early  yeast-filled streams
that dream her day awake. nice alliteration

She bathes in turn, in a cold, damp room
where yellow and smoking the gas flame lives,
sharing the  grubby, gurgling boiler
with  city water; the chemical cologne
of  her fresh washed hair.
Her tresses frizz  in the khamsin blast
from the  turbo-fan, stylising
and  instant drying.

Her deodorant spray ( should  last a day )
will die some time in the afternoon
and then she is mine.  
She dresses from a wooden chest ,
lined with crumbling paper of napthalene blooms;
painstakingly painting her daytime face
of eyes wide-open, lips plasticised
and glossy red.

Each morning she stops at the corner café,
picks a croissant and tears it open,
though too hot to hold. Her  coffee arrives,
a little colder; still, on its surface
she  pursed-lip blows. phrasing sound off
Her perfume, raw from lack of purpose,
joins gladly with the steamy  sweetness;
up it goes into her complex cocktail, great summation line
into her cassolette. Then you are lost in the city
with a city girl.  

Tectak
August 2011
Note. Forgive me old hands but I have been tinkering with this one so a repost is due. Opinions new and old, please. It's not over yet.

A real treat for the senses this one TT very much enjoyed. Keith

Keith,
a real honour from you. I will make your changes...except for fast-food. This is circa seventy...frankly, it may be pre-fast-food
This poem marks a change for me. There are few markers on the way which we are aware of contemporaneously...we don't know what we've passed 'til it's gone. I plead vera-city.
Best,
tectak