“Love—Is that what you do
or just what you want me
“You’re on the other side of misery.
I just offered to buy you
“Of desert wine, I bet.
I know what comes after
the sweet streams.”
An albatross with bum wings caught in-between
a vacationer’s insinuations and the weirder actions
of the tide . . .
I’d only been admiring the peach-skinned evening,
strolling in loose-tied trunks, green hoodie where the water
tongue-kisses the beach, when I obliviously threw
a whisky-whistle at the blended clouds: mellow,
delicate tones deepening to something more intense.
Simply my show of approval, my nod at a master’s piece,
my inspiration and vow to properly embrace and turn
the coming late-hours every which way but tight.
My tweet without letters.
She, passing by, caught it,
dutifully mistaking, taking herself as a woman in peril.
Rather than scream, or flee, she asked me my name,
then began an exchange of sugar water versus
I would’ve passed by at a glance, but she insisted I join
a crab scuttle—dancing, bottom-feeding—as if
I’d some ulterior motive she had to read and announce:
He’s out to tipple and topple any bimbo he can find
already as plum-red-cheeked as him. It wouldn’t be her,
or so she’d declared by yanking, verbally spanking me
in public, yellow-warning any scared others
caring to hear.
While she was nitting and noting,
I noticed her one-piece, wet—very wet—clinging tight,
nipples bright, brighter than the weary sun, or
the tardy moon.
My invitation to drinks came too soon, too polite,
too innocent, she never got the leave-me-alone hint,
till the freak-tide’s wave snuck up on me, mistaking
my loose trunks.
Talk about plum-red cheeks.