I am old
you are
young
like stags
we walk
through
wilderness
with the
knowledge
of the other
My age drips
like sugar plums
yours is passion
and emblazoned
fury
in bed
you lay covered
with crisp sheets
face disguised
pets leaps between
us
removing our
expected
conclusion
passion is a tide
pool filled with many
wonders
I am old
and you are
young
yet aren’t we
simply
children

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