“Love—Is that what you do

or just what you want me

to think?”

 

“You’re on the other side of misery. 

I just offered to buy you

a drink—”

 

“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

salt.

 

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.