MONA LISA

I’m rose-pedals wavering
in dewy, morning-mist.
A contract unsigned
promising that you’ll enlist.
White stripes of a tiger that are drenched in maroon battle-blood.
The wise scent of fresh lemon-grass from
your great-grandma’s garden-shelf.
The paint beneath a fighter-jet that
illusions it into stealth.
The hitman's secret wealth.
The vicious upswing to better health.