I am an older
man in life
I’m on the
fairway
hunting
for my ball
golfer balls
whiz
past me confused
I picked up
your ball
through the round
when I stand
on my putting
green
I so hope
that you’ll
be my ball

Today
my writer’s
desk arrived
a walnut Orca
I ride the current
directed by the
power
I feel other
writers in on
my writer’s
desk
a place for
the printer and
laptop notebooks
hats eyeglasses
telephone
favorite pen
speakers sit like
small Macaw’s
waiting to sing
Other’s have sat
here before me
all of them
writing just like
me

Now close
your eyes
and picture
anywhere
beautiful
you see what
I see my desk
delivered and
the view is of
this amphitheater
dotted by rooftops
with orange
nightlights
majestically
background of
Diamond Head
a husk of its former
grandeur after blast
clouds float like
aging props
covering the
heavens
with a
shower curtain

I kissed
the alabaster
of his shoulder
I outlined the
the plain
of his torso
a sea of flesh
wheat colored
boulders on his chest
rocks in his
abdoman
and down

to the sea of cotton
rising like a white
wave

I like to feel
beauty
against
my skin
its flame
an ingot
hot an ember
inflamed
sun burning
my skin to
red
beauty is
hot
and leaves
its mark
straps watches
sandals
white zebra
stripes by
twilight
beauty is night
glowing brown
sitting cross
legged ten feet
from me I feel
your sun
in my skin