maybe it’s the colour of sex
skin on a sunny beach
up close and sweaty
sun lotion the perfume
and the taste on my lips
dash into breaking waves
sand shifting underfoot
gliding into a slap soft landing
sliding skewed onto heroship
everything is close up
all myopic macrocosm
glossy warm lips
hot quick breath
and sand in everything
her indignant loud blather
scrapes the sun-mottled sidewalk
her practised syllables rippling
through the shivering locust leaves
the hoarse female cigarette voice
accusatory rhythmical hard edged
slices the hapless rough lout
pushing the baby carriage
as she pulls the wagon of groceries
she pauses to bark at the universe
resumes the earnest litany
but we can no longer hear these
incantations of a faith we do not hold
she is entitled to her catechism
as are we to our private jokes
and simple satisfaction
we held our debates years ago
in private
now we smile and speculate on
how much we have yet to learn
Digging in an old chest in the attic
I came upon some items of a bygone era:
a dozen linen handkerchiefs
a straight razor with soap mug and brush
a bag of carefully folded dust rags
a clothing brush.
I don’t know when these items became obsolete
but every time I throw away a paper tissue
a plastic razor or the accompanying can of foam
or a treated cleaning tissue,
I think we have lost something fine
and replaced it with a lot of garbage.
