The citrus smell drifting over the fence
is from the neighbor’s mock orange bush,
a cultivar lab-tweaked to produce
the heady fragrance of orange 
and jasmine blossom, 
evoking sensual nights in the tropics, 
colorful saris, musky incense,

which feels a far distance 
from Louisville, Kentucky, 
where I am rooted
struggling to write a poem,
the results never bearing the fruit I desire.
With the frustration comes the familiar

suspicion that mine are but poor imitations,
that the best I can hope for
is to trick the senses — a frippery, 
plain-clothed mimic of what 
I am not meant to be.