Little wins

Sexy, Pixie, whistle Dixie
Marching tunes and dancing wicks
The candle flared spiced
Chile mix

Tip O the tongue, another wrung
Ladder climb, without descent
To grab the flag
Or pitch the tent

A gallon jug, or chocolate mug
Lip kissed in warm handed fist
Walking upright
In foggy mist

Wash over twice, doused in ice
Crashing wave, words less brave
What we most crave
To be a slave

To love and anxious care
Sweaty palms and twisted hair
And as you pause
Soon comes applause

All rights reserved to James Martin Cox